Looking for Mr Goodbar
I don't know to this day what that movie was about. However, during this holiday season, I have heard more than a bellyful of my aunts bellyaching about brothers and how they have now completely divested themselves of dating black men. Being a black man, I was somewhat offended. I came from a black man, he came from a black man, hell I am a black father. So as anyone could tell, I am somewhat vested in the species of black men. Now granted, we do have our faults. I will be the first to admit that. Sometimes we are non committal, we have issues managing our money, employment is not our traveling companion. I buy that. That said, as I have said before, if you are looking for an instant husband and the man hasn't had the best role models, chances are the sis may come up a little short. If the stats really are true, that there is a crisis of black man, then mathematically there should be a stockpile of Other men for my aunts to date. By Other I mean, native americans, Latinos, Asians, and of course white American men. Now of those I have listed, theoretically, the white American men, coupled with Asian American fall outside of the concept the deviant minority. The word deviant for this discussion represents a subjective meaning, especially from this bloggers POV. Society, be it the media, legal structures, or even smatterings of some lived experiences, have problematized native Americans, Latinos and of course us as some of the dregs. If I were of another planet, well another country, the images and moral panics linked to us would be more than enough to my great grandmother cry. As an African American man, I can only speak from that perspective. Simply put, we catch hell: societal inflected and more times than we'd like, self inflicted. Looking at ourselves, honestly and objectively, we may need to do somethings to re-image ourselves to be more appealing and attractive to our sisters. One of the things I had to do first was accept the fact that I didn't have the best male models available to me. I accepted that in a non accusatory fashion, and in doing so I had an example of what I wanted to present to my son. If I want my son to grow into a man, then that means I had and still have to lead by example. This meant I had to get creative in seeking examples. I had to seek men in my circle, both black and white and wherever else. Deeper, the question of black masculinity had to be vetted. Did/does being a man mean having a fat pocket money wise? How about a job? Isn't education supposed to be an equalizer? These are things I have tried to maintain and achieve but again I have had challenges. If we look at the music and other signifiers of black culture make it plain. Blaxploitation heros from shaft to passenger 57 were sexually endowed, moneyed and had some means of income and operation, legal or illegal. TLC in their hit, No Scrubs made it pretty plain: if you live at home with your momma, if you walking, you are a scrub. Then of course, you got to have a JOB if you want to be with me. These texts can be emasculating if you really think about them. When they come from a man, it's one thing, but from a sista, thats exponentially worse. No if we wish to be perceived as men, viable men at that, we cannot allow ourselves to be measured up by hegemonic standards. At the same token, we cannot allow ourselves to surrender to substandard living. No we have to reclaim our masculinity in a manner that does not disabuse our sisters.
Just my .02 worth.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 03, 2010
Citizens Arrest
Insomnia: never ever have a latte with four shots of espresso at 7:30 am. I am still paying for it. On to the news flash of the day. Yesterday I was at our local mall mentally and physically preparing myself to go into Christmas debt. I was so nervous I had to prepare myself with a lunch of sushi. I had my usual, tuna and salmon, seaweed and I took a risk and tried octopus. That is a tough fish. Almost like eating rubber. To put it down, I had to have a healthy dose of wasabi and soy sauce. Let's say this, whatever sinus congestion I may have had, became non existent. Leaving the mall I got to my truck and I saw something that just didn't look right. This dude, let's say mid 20s came sprinting out of the main mall entrance. I looked this at first saying, ok this is a prank, but then I saw that he had a box with him and he was running solo. Initially like I said, I dismissed it but then the dude started sprinting further in a zig zag direction. This is wrong, I mean something was really fishy here and it wasn't my sushi. So I use my powers of blackness (inviso mode)and follow him in my truck. He goes from the main entrance, still with this box, to the barnes and nobles then bolts back to the parking deck. Still in inviso mode, I call 911 on my hands free phone saying I need mall security as think I've found a shoplifter. I'm still following this cat as he finally makes it to his car where the driver is apparently waiting. I don't know what possessed me but I played the role of the aloof mall shopper alerting the police to my location while giving the car description and the license plate number. Then he gets out of his car, mind he's the passenger, doing an Eminem imitation saying can you move your car. I was like yeah hold just a minute man ok. By this time I put the flashers and he comes back to the truck trying to get a bit more belligerent, I mean trying to talk loud. I was like hold on you stay right here. By this time he goes back to the car pissed and the driver comes out, a 50 plus white woman saying she's his mother, what's the problem. Finally the cops show up and vanilla ice goes to the cop saying this guy is blocking us in. I'm like hold up chief, I'm blocking him in because I saw run from the with some merchandise without a bag. I'm not saying he stole anything, that it just didnt look right. I hope I'm wrong but I did see him go from the mall exit running to the best buy, then running to the barnes and nobles. I'm going till you get some back up. I think dude knew was gig was up when he saw the car and four other officers arrive. The head detective showed up and I told him the same thing. By this time Slim Shady was in cuffs. Strangely I was still saying, I hope this is right because I don't want y'all to put an innocent man into custody. The cop was like, we have the merchandise, we've got him. We're going to question him and we're going to see if anyone is missing merchandise. To me you were on it man, good job.
Why did I do that? It was incredibly brave at the same time a questionable decision. So why did I do it? I think the first reason was because of my little boy. Now I would not have done this were he with me. But I guess because I am a dad of a four year old, this to me I guess if I'm going to preach right and wrong, then I have to walk the path of those who do the morally right thing. I ain't perfect. That's why there's a savior if you believe. But right is right and wrong is wrong. So sometimes when you see wrong, I guess in this case, when nobody was looking, it was my test: do you really know right and wrong? What are you going to do when confronted with the challenge? So maybe while no one was watching, especially in matters of my safety, God was watching and pretty blessed me with good sense to stay in my truck, be coherent and control the situation. I think the second reason that motivated me to act was, damn man, this is my mall and it's Christmas. I've been going to this mall since 1978 and I bring my son here now. When you steal from my mall, you steal from me. When you act stupid at my mall running like that, you disrupt the flow of my mall where I take my son. You just ain't going to take my holiday spirit and damned if you going to do that at my spot. Of course when I got home and realized what I had done, I did have to say a quick thank you Jesus for keeping me safe and in the words of the late Jerry Reed for not letting that crazy son of a bitch hit my truck!!! :-)
Why did I do that? It was incredibly brave at the same time a questionable decision. So why did I do it? I think the first reason was because of my little boy. Now I would not have done this were he with me. But I guess because I am a dad of a four year old, this to me I guess if I'm going to preach right and wrong, then I have to walk the path of those who do the morally right thing. I ain't perfect. That's why there's a savior if you believe. But right is right and wrong is wrong. So sometimes when you see wrong, I guess in this case, when nobody was looking, it was my test: do you really know right and wrong? What are you going to do when confronted with the challenge? So maybe while no one was watching, especially in matters of my safety, God was watching and pretty blessed me with good sense to stay in my truck, be coherent and control the situation. I think the second reason that motivated me to act was, damn man, this is my mall and it's Christmas. I've been going to this mall since 1978 and I bring my son here now. When you steal from my mall, you steal from me. When you act stupid at my mall running like that, you disrupt the flow of my mall where I take my son. You just ain't going to take my holiday spirit and damned if you going to do that at my spot. Of course when I got home and realized what I had done, I did have to say a quick thank you Jesus for keeping me safe and in the words of the late Jerry Reed for not letting that crazy son of a bitch hit my truck!!! :-)
Sunday, November 14, 2010
And Now Chapter 4 is in the proofing phase
Some 54 pages later, I have a chapter 4. It is rough and when I say rough I mean sand paper rough.. Creating charts and going down the list of transcripts trying to make meaning out of what I collected; that is a hard ass job. I mean it is hard. Now what's next aside from prepping for Chapter 5 the final chapter, I have condense chapter four to 15 pages for a paper while turning it into my debut article. I have to get this published or work on having a piece ready for publication so that when I hit the pavement hard with new degree in hand, I can walk into a publish or perish institution and say, I'm ready to publish!!!!
The one thing I have come to conclude is that I do not like being a tenant. There is something rather surfish about it. I'd rather be a home owner. When you don't own your place you live at, you are at the whim of another person. In my re-structuring for lack of a better term, I am noticing that I like being my own "free agent." I guess its the only child in me. I don't like being told what to do, and I don't like "top down" structures, particualrlly when I am at the bottom. The landlord-tennant thing just isn't for me. I was taking a quick accounting of new PhDs in the system where I would like to work and the starting salary is 55k. With a publication or two, I can put myself on the tenure track and request the higher end of the salary scale. From there, being a born again saver, I can put money away for a down payment on a nice home--preferably a three level town home with a basement and garage. However, everyone must start somewhere.
My back is starting to feel like it did prior to my injury. I haven't tried to preform my deadliest at the 400 pound range because quite simply I am afraid. I do not want to be injured like two months ago. Being 40, according to the social contract on being 40, stipulates that with age comes a slower healing time, unless you are a mutant of which I am not. But to get stronger means I have to build, in some cases back up to where I was. My lifts at the gym are improving. I have noticed that my technique is starting to form. One positive thing is that I am using a belt more often and that seems to be therapeutic for my back. The belt does compress the lower back muscles and keep them warm. I am slowly incorporating more of a hanging squat in my clean and jerks. Still to date, my record/personal best is 185 on the clean an jerk and now in hindsight, I don't know if I can count it. One problem I have noticed is that on my jerk part of the lift, well my arm/trap motion is not as explosive as I would like for it to be. At 135, I think it could pass, at 155, maybe, 175, don't know and 185, no. So I have got to find some drills or exercises to to build that explosive strength to get that weight off my shoulders and clearly over my head...
Ok off to start my Sunday and get this paper off to my advisor for revisions!!!
The one thing I have come to conclude is that I do not like being a tenant. There is something rather surfish about it. I'd rather be a home owner. When you don't own your place you live at, you are at the whim of another person. In my re-structuring for lack of a better term, I am noticing that I like being my own "free agent." I guess its the only child in me. I don't like being told what to do, and I don't like "top down" structures, particualrlly when I am at the bottom. The landlord-tennant thing just isn't for me. I was taking a quick accounting of new PhDs in the system where I would like to work and the starting salary is 55k. With a publication or two, I can put myself on the tenure track and request the higher end of the salary scale. From there, being a born again saver, I can put money away for a down payment on a nice home--preferably a three level town home with a basement and garage. However, everyone must start somewhere.
My back is starting to feel like it did prior to my injury. I haven't tried to preform my deadliest at the 400 pound range because quite simply I am afraid. I do not want to be injured like two months ago. Being 40, according to the social contract on being 40, stipulates that with age comes a slower healing time, unless you are a mutant of which I am not. But to get stronger means I have to build, in some cases back up to where I was. My lifts at the gym are improving. I have noticed that my technique is starting to form. One positive thing is that I am using a belt more often and that seems to be therapeutic for my back. The belt does compress the lower back muscles and keep them warm. I am slowly incorporating more of a hanging squat in my clean and jerks. Still to date, my record/personal best is 185 on the clean an jerk and now in hindsight, I don't know if I can count it. One problem I have noticed is that on my jerk part of the lift, well my arm/trap motion is not as explosive as I would like for it to be. At 135, I think it could pass, at 155, maybe, 175, don't know and 185, no. So I have got to find some drills or exercises to to build that explosive strength to get that weight off my shoulders and clearly over my head...
Ok off to start my Sunday and get this paper off to my advisor for revisions!!!
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Dissertation Dissertation Dissertation
Why couldn't it be like Beatlejuice Beatlejuice Beatlejuice? Blog, I have been a way for a long time. I know I have been negligent. So far three people have asked why I have not been posting. Do I need to say it again? Dissertation Dissertation Dissertation. Right now I am at chapter 4 nearing its completion and I am not even going to lie, life happens. Need I say more. Life happens. I am going to keep it low profile for a while but I when the semester is done, and yes I have my pin number, I will begin another season of My Life and Times w- White Folks. As opposed to trying to write daily, which simply is not going to happen, I am going to treat my blog very much like a television show, because my life on some days is a sitcom, others, a drama, others, an action adventure series and or course part game show: but never reality TV. In the new season of MLTWF, well here's the highlight reel: The dissertation--graduation--to where you finally get to call me Doctor. The job hunt--yes I will be mail bombing the country with my CV. Conference presentations--I have submitted my research to multiple conferences and hopefully will make the right presentation. More media-- my trusty IPhone 4, the quest for the cannon 6D, and maybe even a new desktop computer--this will be with a research grant of course, my fitness log and the ultimate competition in my first weight lifting contest and of course the never ending saga of trying to make sense racial prejudice in the heartland, the south and even abroad. So check back in six weeks where the new season will begin..
Saturday, July 24, 2010
audio test
https://vr.shapeservices.com/play.php?hash=4f8f1f4cee156cf9b0631579d3567496a9f64e30015b62389
checking this new audio thing
___
Recorded on iPhone and posted with VR+ Lite.
http://vr.shapeservices.com
test
https://vr.shapeservices.com/play.php?hash=4f8f1f4cee156cf9b0631579d3567496a9f64e30015b62389
audio test
___
Recorded on iPhone and posted with VR+ Lite.
http://vr.shapeservices.com
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Illusive Power of White Policing
"Protect and Serve: $h!..." Bernie Cassie from Cleopatra Jones
There are some white folks, who just don’t need to be in law enforcement, end of story. Certainly, I could grandly discuss the high profile cases of white police officers punching out black women. I could easily lament about how a white police officer was given a slap on the wrist for shooting a black male in the back. But, for me, I think I have discovered the nexus, the real embryonic stem cell of bad policing: the age requirement. Maybe it’s me because I am turning 40 and I am now beginning to see a new 20 something generation. Maybe I am too close to race. I don’t know why, but today, this evening, my son and I had to really deal with the issue of white supremacy and law enforcement, and mind you, he is only three years old.
After successfully completing my parenting classes, a critical lesson I learned was this: “when you can and cannot leave a child unattended.” In the state of North Carolina, you never leave a child under the age of 5 unattended, period. In fact, in my parenting class, I was there with one gentleman who made this crucial mistake. He received a citation, was introduced, (using the word loosely) to child protective services and was forced into a round of child parenting classes. This was all due to the fact that he made the decision to leave his child for a split second at the gas station to pay for some gas. Many folks wouldn’t consider that as child endangerment; however, with the many car-jackers, child predators and other nut jobs out here, it is better to err on the side of caution. Having said that, my son and I, unfortunately were out late due to an unexpected chain of events. One of my wife’s colleagues passed unexpectedly and she had our child with her. The hour was late, and of course, being a new graduate of parenting classes, I had my objections to our son being out past 8:30 PM. But life happens and so being, a tired yet good co-parent, I complied. On to where my son and I meet the police: driving to the gas station, I was tired. I simply did not want to get out of the truck, undo the five-point harness and take my three-year-old son out of the truck, into the gas station putting him back into the five point harness at night. In Fantasy Island, there would be a fully functioning full service gas station with people pumping gas at night. I pull up, I pay, and they pump.
Recognizing the fatigue setting in, I ask one of the nearby officers, sitting in their cars at the gas station to assist me; after all, police officers represent public servants. I ask the younger officer, “Could you please help me, I’ve got my three year old son in the car and I would like to get some gas, would you mind watching him while I go pay for it?” His response was, “Why can’t you take him with you?” It’s a fair question and I explain my points. One, he’s in a five point harness, two, its night time, and I don’t want my toddler going in the gas station at night, three, I can’t leave my son unattended. His flippant response really got under my nerve, “I’m not a baby sitter sir.”
I am asking myself, is it me, is it the color of my skin, did he have a bad day, what was it that pricked him so, to make him act like such? Gratefully another officer came by, looked to make sure I had a child, and was more understanding about my situation. He allowed me to park my car at pump six, go pay for the gas while he did not what just a police officer would do, but what a fellow citizen should do, help your fellow citizen and for the record, he too was white.
I was thoroughly annoyed on multiple levels. The first was obvious, paternalistically: As a parent, I am thinking societal accommodations should be made to assist parents with children in tow. Granted, being out at night past 8:30 was not what I planned for, but don’t penalize me for it either. An easy solution would be to have someone on duty to pump gas for me. This accommodation is made for those who are physically challenged; why not offer assistance for parents. Second, this officer’s behavior unequivocally represents the negative stereotype of police officers. To me, he was a young gun with something to prove. After my interaction with him, I felt as though I owed him an apology because I was not his crime victim, or his suspect. Please forgive me as I am just a citizen who happens to be under his watch. However, because we failed to represent the unruly element of society; from my perception, apparently, my son nor I weren’t worth his time. Now here is where the scenario gets tricky: had I been the uninformed parent, running into the quick mart, paying for my gas, I could easily have been this officer’s citation for the night, thrust into the department of social services, fodder for child protective services. His attitude linked to his body language, suggested to me that my request was beneath him to protect us. At the risk of being repetitive, my race is my reality. Would this officer, no more than 25 years old, (emotional age of 18) treat me so flippantly, so cavalierly, were I white? I thought one of the prime directives of the police – regardless of color was to protect the public. Is a three-year-old little boy not worth protection?
There are some white folks, who just don’t need to be in law enforcement, end of story. Certainly, I could grandly discuss the high profile cases of white police officers punching out black women. I could easily lament about how a white police officer was given a slap on the wrist for shooting a black male in the back. But, for me, I think I have discovered the nexus, the real embryonic stem cell of bad policing: the age requirement. Maybe it’s me because I am turning 40 and I am now beginning to see a new 20 something generation. Maybe I am too close to race. I don’t know why, but today, this evening, my son and I had to really deal with the issue of white supremacy and law enforcement, and mind you, he is only three years old.
After successfully completing my parenting classes, a critical lesson I learned was this: “when you can and cannot leave a child unattended.” In the state of North Carolina, you never leave a child under the age of 5 unattended, period. In fact, in my parenting class, I was there with one gentleman who made this crucial mistake. He received a citation, was introduced, (using the word loosely) to child protective services and was forced into a round of child parenting classes. This was all due to the fact that he made the decision to leave his child for a split second at the gas station to pay for some gas. Many folks wouldn’t consider that as child endangerment; however, with the many car-jackers, child predators and other nut jobs out here, it is better to err on the side of caution. Having said that, my son and I, unfortunately were out late due to an unexpected chain of events. One of my wife’s colleagues passed unexpectedly and she had our child with her. The hour was late, and of course, being a new graduate of parenting classes, I had my objections to our son being out past 8:30 PM. But life happens and so being, a tired yet good co-parent, I complied. On to where my son and I meet the police: driving to the gas station, I was tired. I simply did not want to get out of the truck, undo the five-point harness and take my three-year-old son out of the truck, into the gas station putting him back into the five point harness at night. In Fantasy Island, there would be a fully functioning full service gas station with people pumping gas at night. I pull up, I pay, and they pump.
Recognizing the fatigue setting in, I ask one of the nearby officers, sitting in their cars at the gas station to assist me; after all, police officers represent public servants. I ask the younger officer, “Could you please help me, I’ve got my three year old son in the car and I would like to get some gas, would you mind watching him while I go pay for it?” His response was, “Why can’t you take him with you?” It’s a fair question and I explain my points. One, he’s in a five point harness, two, its night time, and I don’t want my toddler going in the gas station at night, three, I can’t leave my son unattended. His flippant response really got under my nerve, “I’m not a baby sitter sir.”
I am asking myself, is it me, is it the color of my skin, did he have a bad day, what was it that pricked him so, to make him act like such? Gratefully another officer came by, looked to make sure I had a child, and was more understanding about my situation. He allowed me to park my car at pump six, go pay for the gas while he did not what just a police officer would do, but what a fellow citizen should do, help your fellow citizen and for the record, he too was white.
I was thoroughly annoyed on multiple levels. The first was obvious, paternalistically: As a parent, I am thinking societal accommodations should be made to assist parents with children in tow. Granted, being out at night past 8:30 was not what I planned for, but don’t penalize me for it either. An easy solution would be to have someone on duty to pump gas for me. This accommodation is made for those who are physically challenged; why not offer assistance for parents. Second, this officer’s behavior unequivocally represents the negative stereotype of police officers. To me, he was a young gun with something to prove. After my interaction with him, I felt as though I owed him an apology because I was not his crime victim, or his suspect. Please forgive me as I am just a citizen who happens to be under his watch. However, because we failed to represent the unruly element of society; from my perception, apparently, my son nor I weren’t worth his time. Now here is where the scenario gets tricky: had I been the uninformed parent, running into the quick mart, paying for my gas, I could easily have been this officer’s citation for the night, thrust into the department of social services, fodder for child protective services. His attitude linked to his body language, suggested to me that my request was beneath him to protect us. At the risk of being repetitive, my race is my reality. Would this officer, no more than 25 years old, (emotional age of 18) treat me so flippantly, so cavalierly, were I white? I thought one of the prime directives of the police – regardless of color was to protect the public. Is a three-year-old little boy not worth protection?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Unscrupulous Nature of of Politicians and Politics
Unacceptable. That represents the word best to describe how white folks on capital hill treat poor people, under the hill. At stake is HR 4213, which I now refer to as the Human Rights bill. I find it utterly preposterous how anyone who makes an average salary of over $100,000.00 can capriciously play Milton Bradley board games with the lives of human beings. Again, the social schemas are resoundingly evident. You do a favor for me, I’ll do a favor for you. So the doctors can get paid, while S-corps can easily be funded. That said, what about getting people fed? Incrementally, the economic and social divide is becoming bigger and deeper. Its no longer about haves and have nots, but instead, haves and the done. If you have, then you too can still take your turn at the game called the American Dream. But if you are among the done, you are finished. You are on a down hill slide to the underclass. Now what does it mean to be a member of the underclass? Lets see, in the words of the Clash:
You have the right not to be killed. Murder is a crime
Unless it is done by a policeman or an aristocrat. –In this case, that means some of the folk on capital hill.
You have the right to food and money. Provided of course
You don’t mind a little investigation, humiliation, and if you cross your fingers
A little rehabilitation.
You have the right to free speech, provided you are not dumb enough to actually try it.
It is amazing how those words which were written under a republican administration actually have merit in a democratic administration.
I’d like to add a few to this:
You have the right to health care, provided you can afford it. If you cannot afford health care, the state will provide an expedient burial for you, of course at a nominal fee at the local landfill.
Case and point, I’m still in awe about the woman who elected to shoot herself so that she could be seen by emergency room medical physicians… That’s the state of America we live in today.
No you do not have the right to a job, but we will quickly provide you with room and board if you commit a crime. As much as I hate to make this analogy, it’s easier for someone to live who is an inmate. As an inmate, where rehabilitation is a joke, you at least get “three hots and a cot” and of course health care. You even get a job, though it may be making license plates, you at least get a job with a salary of a quarter a day. Granted it as I said it is an absurd analogy but our incarcerated population gets better care than those who have been laid off, lost their house, lost their dignity. But it’s like that and that’s the way it is—Walter Cronkite or Run DMC.
I would love it if some of these elected to the bourgeoisie, those who live this glamorous life of the “cult of celebrity” actually be forced to take up residence in the slums, the prisons, the ghettos the places they are so removed from, the places they politicized and criminalized, and experience some of the real world decisions the underclass have to make daily.
Here are a few:
1. Gas or groceries?
2. Doctor or groceries?
3. Take a job that pays less than the minimum wage or work in the underground economy
4. Buy the next anesthetizing bottle of booze or seek treatment for alcoholism.
5. Do I take my family to a shelter or move in with my children?
6. Fast money or no money?
These are just a few of the decisions folks have to make, to guess what; survive. Sad, yes, the reality of many, regrettably true. We have more sympathy for a pelican in the gulf than our neighbor being evicted from their home.
Welcome to my United States of America….
You have the right not to be killed. Murder is a crime
Unless it is done by a policeman or an aristocrat. –In this case, that means some of the folk on capital hill.
You have the right to food and money. Provided of course
You don’t mind a little investigation, humiliation, and if you cross your fingers
A little rehabilitation.
You have the right to free speech, provided you are not dumb enough to actually try it.
It is amazing how those words which were written under a republican administration actually have merit in a democratic administration.
I’d like to add a few to this:
You have the right to health care, provided you can afford it. If you cannot afford health care, the state will provide an expedient burial for you, of course at a nominal fee at the local landfill.
Case and point, I’m still in awe about the woman who elected to shoot herself so that she could be seen by emergency room medical physicians… That’s the state of America we live in today.
No you do not have the right to a job, but we will quickly provide you with room and board if you commit a crime. As much as I hate to make this analogy, it’s easier for someone to live who is an inmate. As an inmate, where rehabilitation is a joke, you at least get “three hots and a cot” and of course health care. You even get a job, though it may be making license plates, you at least get a job with a salary of a quarter a day. Granted it as I said it is an absurd analogy but our incarcerated population gets better care than those who have been laid off, lost their house, lost their dignity. But it’s like that and that’s the way it is—Walter Cronkite or Run DMC.
I would love it if some of these elected to the bourgeoisie, those who live this glamorous life of the “cult of celebrity” actually be forced to take up residence in the slums, the prisons, the ghettos the places they are so removed from, the places they politicized and criminalized, and experience some of the real world decisions the underclass have to make daily.
Here are a few:
1. Gas or groceries?
2. Doctor or groceries?
3. Take a job that pays less than the minimum wage or work in the underground economy
4. Buy the next anesthetizing bottle of booze or seek treatment for alcoholism.
5. Do I take my family to a shelter or move in with my children?
6. Fast money or no money?
These are just a few of the decisions folks have to make, to guess what; survive. Sad, yes, the reality of many, regrettably true. We have more sympathy for a pelican in the gulf than our neighbor being evicted from their home.
Welcome to my United States of America….
Friday, June 18, 2010
Another Regeneration
Greetings all:
Its time for a new look and I have finally made the transition of migrating the saga of my martial transition to a new blog site titled appropriately transitions. In the mean time three things I would like to discuss briefly. First is the rising cost of health care. There is a white woman who blatantly said, you are going to see me by any means necessary, so what did she do? Already in pain from an apparent dislocated shoulder, she took a .25 semi automatic and shot herself in the same shoulder. The sad part is that not did she fail in her objective, meaning she did not get seen by emergency staff, but now she has a dislocated shoulder, a bullet wound to the same shoulder, and now may face criminal prosecution. This is courtesy of rich upper class white folk on the Hill who are oblivious to those who are oppressed by their policies. Item number two: Bod Edthiridge, Who Are You. When I first saw the video for this I was cracking completely up. Listening to him ask "Who are you?" made me think of Chris Luda Bridges anthem Get Back! Who are you, get back, you don't know me like that! It was too funny to see the politics of whiteness against itself. But the highlight of the week was just radical. A white police officer gives a girl, who was interfering with an arrest, the classic B-slap, well maybe more so a joe paloka punch out. of course I had a national response where you can read it here:
This to me, this represents a clear cut case of policing gone wrong. The officer sets the tone. This is done through vocalics and other non-verbal communication tactics. End of story. Last I checked, Jay-Walking was only a jail-able offense in Mayberry, NC under Deputy Barney Fife! That said, the officer, clearly had no control of the situation. What's important to consider here is that the dynamics of race, gender, and class are played against the historical backdrop of police brutality in this country. Clearly, the teens were not complying with the officer's commands. That could be chalked up to the teen's rebellious nature or even learned distrust of the police. The officer, who clearly had power, failed to appropriately use the powers at his disposal. The premise to me at least represents White-Male-Supermacy. At the risk of projecting, in his mind, if he cannot contain two African-American female teenagers, he in essence is ineffective. Therefore he resorted to what I feel codify extreme measures. The alternative power available to him would have been to radio for back up. A more strategic use of this power, would have been to request for female assistance. Instead, the politics of white male supremacy, overcame professional-best practices. This could have been a more tragic event, as if it happened at night, gunshots could have been fired. Sadly, because of the tarnished historical relationship between law enforcement and marginalized people of color in America, this only adds to the list of challengeable incidents with no real solution on the horizon. Lastly, at the risk of being passionate, there is no way one can justify a professionally trained police officer, openly assaulting a minor. It clearly is inexcusable conduct in the context of a moving/walking violation. If this represents standard operating procedure for the Seattle Police Department, then the books need to be re-written.
Its time for a new look and I have finally made the transition of migrating the saga of my martial transition to a new blog site titled appropriately transitions. In the mean time three things I would like to discuss briefly. First is the rising cost of health care. There is a white woman who blatantly said, you are going to see me by any means necessary, so what did she do? Already in pain from an apparent dislocated shoulder, she took a .25 semi automatic and shot herself in the same shoulder. The sad part is that not did she fail in her objective, meaning she did not get seen by emergency staff, but now she has a dislocated shoulder, a bullet wound to the same shoulder, and now may face criminal prosecution. This is courtesy of rich upper class white folk on the Hill who are oblivious to those who are oppressed by their policies. Item number two: Bod Edthiridge, Who Are You. When I first saw the video for this I was cracking completely up. Listening to him ask "Who are you?" made me think of Chris Luda Bridges anthem Get Back! Who are you, get back, you don't know me like that! It was too funny to see the politics of whiteness against itself. But the highlight of the week was just radical. A white police officer gives a girl, who was interfering with an arrest, the classic B-slap, well maybe more so a joe paloka punch out. of course I had a national response where you can read it here:
This to me, this represents a clear cut case of policing gone wrong. The officer sets the tone. This is done through vocalics and other non-verbal communication tactics. End of story. Last I checked, Jay-Walking was only a jail-able offense in Mayberry, NC under Deputy Barney Fife! That said, the officer, clearly had no control of the situation. What's important to consider here is that the dynamics of race, gender, and class are played against the historical backdrop of police brutality in this country. Clearly, the teens were not complying with the officer's commands. That could be chalked up to the teen's rebellious nature or even learned distrust of the police. The officer, who clearly had power, failed to appropriately use the powers at his disposal. The premise to me at least represents White-Male-Supermacy. At the risk of projecting, in his mind, if he cannot contain two African-American female teenagers, he in essence is ineffective. Therefore he resorted to what I feel codify extreme measures. The alternative power available to him would have been to radio for back up. A more strategic use of this power, would have been to request for female assistance. Instead, the politics of white male supremacy, overcame professional-best practices. This could have been a more tragic event, as if it happened at night, gunshots could have been fired. Sadly, because of the tarnished historical relationship between law enforcement and marginalized people of color in America, this only adds to the list of challengeable incidents with no real solution on the horizon. Lastly, at the risk of being passionate, there is no way one can justify a professionally trained police officer, openly assaulting a minor. It clearly is inexcusable conduct in the context of a moving/walking violation. If this represents standard operating procedure for the Seattle Police Department, then the books need to be re-written.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Budget of Red Chief
"The Force is Strong With This One."
Today I gave Red Chief something I never had. I introduced him to the concept of money and a budget. I can’t believe I did it but you know what, I actually felt like a responsible parent. Not because I introduced him to the concept of capitalism, but because I showed him money that was his own and he actually had to start learning some sense of financial accountability. It was funny because as I picked him up from daycare, I told his teacher that today, Red Chief was going to get his first allowance, $10.00 from dad. To me, this was a milestone because I actually put that in my own budget. It was important for me also in the sense where, I actively changed the course of my own history. I never had anyone show me, this is your money, this is how much you have to spend, go make good decisions. In my 39 years on the planet, I never had anyone show me the concept of a budget, so for me, this is going to be a learning experience as well. So we went to the ATM, where I explained to him what the letters stood for and withdrew $15.00. From there, I had the teller break the ten dollar bill into ten one dollar bills. Going further, I asked the teller to be so kind as to count the money for Red Chief and put it in his little hand. The symbolic message here was ownership. I think what was also important was that you had three African American males transacting financial matters, thrusting the little one into the concept of money and responsibility. He was like, this is mine? I said yes but you need to count it to make sure you have what you are supposed to have, so he counted 10 one dollar bills which were all his own. After that, I told him he had to put it in his pocket and he was now responsible for the money. It was all his, to do with, as he wished. So as we were walking around the wallmart, he saw some big-gulp mugs of which one he wanted. I asked how much was it? He apparently didn’t know so I told him. These are four dollars each. How much money do you have? He responded back, oh, I have $10.00. Ok, so not only was he getting a lesson in money management, but also a reinforcement on subtraction. Here is where today got more interesting! I shared with him that he was going to have to purchase his own triple chocolate chip cookie and chocolate milk at B&N for our father/son cookie time. So now, the concept of budget hit home because I explained to him that his goal was to make sure that he had some money left over by the weekend. I was so proud of him as he remained focused in the Wal-Mart. We walked all through the toy section and the DVD selection where he saw his favorite cartoons. He held on to his money until we got to Barnes and when he got there, I explained to him that he was in charge. He needed to tell the person behind the counter what he wanted and he had to pay for it. The only thing I needed to correct was of course the politics of diplomacy. Make sure you say please and make sure you say thank you. When the clerk said $3.54, I popped him on the counter, opened up his pocket and asked him to count out four dollars and sure enough, he did! He didn’t understand the concept of change so I had to let him know, you wait for your change. Then it was my turn, I got a little nervous because I was fishing for my money and Red Chief was like, that’s ok Daddy, I have enough money for both of us. OK, I was shocked pleasantly but it also struck a nerve. Never will I allow my son to pay my own way! Thank you Red Chief, but dad can handle his own. He was like, but you don’t have it daddy. Then I had to come back with, boy, who do you think gave you your allowance, as I paid for my cookie. I think that was a real turning point for me. I actually can model good behavior. It was like I saw my toddler grow up a little, instantly. Me and his mom, some days to my surprise, are actually raising a smart, good little boy, despite our crossed transgressions. When I have days like these, when I see him after a long break, well groomed, smiling, happy, it makes me cry tears of joy. Some days they are sad because I feel like he is having to re-live my past. That makes me so self-conscious because I so want him to have a home with a mom and a dad under the same roof. That said, I also realize that it’s equally important that the mom and dad who are under the same roof are not just loving to the child, but equally loving to each other. I digress, when Red Chief and I got back to the penthouse, I already had dinner waiting along with some of his favorites, and of course, his not so favorites. On the plus side, there was chocolate milk, chocolate ice cream, peanut butter and jelly, did I say chocolate milk. Now, not on his hit parade were vegetables. These included mustard greens, mixed vegetables, vegetable juice, in other words, the foods every toddler hates. Red Chief is no exception to the rule. Me I just don’t buy into sneaking vegetables in through other foods. To me, its a deceptive trick which I don’t even like to do with our dog. So dinner was fun, we had beef ribs and mustard greens. Needless to say, Red Chief made a mad dash to his closet to obtain some type of toy as a diversion, enter the Jack in the box. Dad can only take so much, so after dad patiently eats his meal, he asks Red Chief does he need some assistance? Why ask the obvious? No daddy, I’m fine as I see not now a mustard green going in his mouth. It got so comical that he picked up my 500 page anthology on cultural studies and feigned reading it at the dinner table. This was so hilarious. I was tempted to ask him, which theorist do you prefer, Stuart Hall and his concept of re-presentation or Barthes work on semiotics? If he had a tangible response, I probably would have started taking notes. Even if Red Chief is slated to be a genius, he is still a genius in training and I represent the head Jedi Knight in charge. That said, on to the Jedi Mind Tricks and the politics of vegetables otherwise know as cajoling and bribery.
Red Chief, if you eat the veggies, you can have the other half of the cookie. Needless to say this only went so far. In my best James Earl Jones voice, the force is strong with this one… This called for a more sophisticated and philosophical approach. Red Chief do you need help with your mechanics or motivation? The words went over his head like a Concorde. Mechanics appeared to be the problem. So, back to trains, planes and automobiles. He ate his veggies and his beef and the world was a much safer place. And guess what, he had a BM! I was so pleased. (it’s the little things that count). Well after chocolate ice cream for dessert we settled up his finances. With six dollars left, he put it in his bank until tomorrow. If he does good, he’ll have some spending cash for the weekend. If not, well this is where dad becomes the ATM. But I have to say this, today as a dad, I felt pretty damned accomplished. Now if I can nail this job interview tomorrow, I’ll feel even better!!!!
Today I gave Red Chief something I never had. I introduced him to the concept of money and a budget. I can’t believe I did it but you know what, I actually felt like a responsible parent. Not because I introduced him to the concept of capitalism, but because I showed him money that was his own and he actually had to start learning some sense of financial accountability. It was funny because as I picked him up from daycare, I told his teacher that today, Red Chief was going to get his first allowance, $10.00 from dad. To me, this was a milestone because I actually put that in my own budget. It was important for me also in the sense where, I actively changed the course of my own history. I never had anyone show me, this is your money, this is how much you have to spend, go make good decisions. In my 39 years on the planet, I never had anyone show me the concept of a budget, so for me, this is going to be a learning experience as well. So we went to the ATM, where I explained to him what the letters stood for and withdrew $15.00. From there, I had the teller break the ten dollar bill into ten one dollar bills. Going further, I asked the teller to be so kind as to count the money for Red Chief and put it in his little hand. The symbolic message here was ownership. I think what was also important was that you had three African American males transacting financial matters, thrusting the little one into the concept of money and responsibility. He was like, this is mine? I said yes but you need to count it to make sure you have what you are supposed to have, so he counted 10 one dollar bills which were all his own. After that, I told him he had to put it in his pocket and he was now responsible for the money. It was all his, to do with, as he wished. So as we were walking around the wallmart, he saw some big-gulp mugs of which one he wanted. I asked how much was it? He apparently didn’t know so I told him. These are four dollars each. How much money do you have? He responded back, oh, I have $10.00. Ok, so not only was he getting a lesson in money management, but also a reinforcement on subtraction. Here is where today got more interesting! I shared with him that he was going to have to purchase his own triple chocolate chip cookie and chocolate milk at B&N for our father/son cookie time. So now, the concept of budget hit home because I explained to him that his goal was to make sure that he had some money left over by the weekend. I was so proud of him as he remained focused in the Wal-Mart. We walked all through the toy section and the DVD selection where he saw his favorite cartoons. He held on to his money until we got to Barnes and when he got there, I explained to him that he was in charge. He needed to tell the person behind the counter what he wanted and he had to pay for it. The only thing I needed to correct was of course the politics of diplomacy. Make sure you say please and make sure you say thank you. When the clerk said $3.54, I popped him on the counter, opened up his pocket and asked him to count out four dollars and sure enough, he did! He didn’t understand the concept of change so I had to let him know, you wait for your change. Then it was my turn, I got a little nervous because I was fishing for my money and Red Chief was like, that’s ok Daddy, I have enough money for both of us. OK, I was shocked pleasantly but it also struck a nerve. Never will I allow my son to pay my own way! Thank you Red Chief, but dad can handle his own. He was like, but you don’t have it daddy. Then I had to come back with, boy, who do you think gave you your allowance, as I paid for my cookie. I think that was a real turning point for me. I actually can model good behavior. It was like I saw my toddler grow up a little, instantly. Me and his mom, some days to my surprise, are actually raising a smart, good little boy, despite our crossed transgressions. When I have days like these, when I see him after a long break, well groomed, smiling, happy, it makes me cry tears of joy. Some days they are sad because I feel like he is having to re-live my past. That makes me so self-conscious because I so want him to have a home with a mom and a dad under the same roof. That said, I also realize that it’s equally important that the mom and dad who are under the same roof are not just loving to the child, but equally loving to each other. I digress, when Red Chief and I got back to the penthouse, I already had dinner waiting along with some of his favorites, and of course, his not so favorites. On the plus side, there was chocolate milk, chocolate ice cream, peanut butter and jelly, did I say chocolate milk. Now, not on his hit parade were vegetables. These included mustard greens, mixed vegetables, vegetable juice, in other words, the foods every toddler hates. Red Chief is no exception to the rule. Me I just don’t buy into sneaking vegetables in through other foods. To me, its a deceptive trick which I don’t even like to do with our dog. So dinner was fun, we had beef ribs and mustard greens. Needless to say, Red Chief made a mad dash to his closet to obtain some type of toy as a diversion, enter the Jack in the box. Dad can only take so much, so after dad patiently eats his meal, he asks Red Chief does he need some assistance? Why ask the obvious? No daddy, I’m fine as I see not now a mustard green going in his mouth. It got so comical that he picked up my 500 page anthology on cultural studies and feigned reading it at the dinner table. This was so hilarious. I was tempted to ask him, which theorist do you prefer, Stuart Hall and his concept of re-presentation or Barthes work on semiotics? If he had a tangible response, I probably would have started taking notes. Even if Red Chief is slated to be a genius, he is still a genius in training and I represent the head Jedi Knight in charge. That said, on to the Jedi Mind Tricks and the politics of vegetables otherwise know as cajoling and bribery.
Red Chief, if you eat the veggies, you can have the other half of the cookie. Needless to say this only went so far. In my best James Earl Jones voice, the force is strong with this one… This called for a more sophisticated and philosophical approach. Red Chief do you need help with your mechanics or motivation? The words went over his head like a Concorde. Mechanics appeared to be the problem. So, back to trains, planes and automobiles. He ate his veggies and his beef and the world was a much safer place. And guess what, he had a BM! I was so pleased. (it’s the little things that count). Well after chocolate ice cream for dessert we settled up his finances. With six dollars left, he put it in his bank until tomorrow. If he does good, he’ll have some spending cash for the weekend. If not, well this is where dad becomes the ATM. But I have to say this, today as a dad, I felt pretty damned accomplished. Now if I can nail this job interview tomorrow, I’ll feel even better!!!!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Money, Shoes, and, Computers
"A dollar is a terrible thing to waste"
There is the co-parent who is mentally sober and then there is the co-parent who is not. I have the challenge of working with both. I came to an interesting milestone of sorts recently. It has now been six months since the separation. Six months. Do I still get angry, yes. Do I still miss her, yes, Do I still want our relationship to work itself out, yes. Do I still have a candle in the window, no. These are the times I play that song by Carol King, “Well its too late baby, yes it’s too late, though we really did try and make it.” Then there are times when I hear other songs like “Never ever going to give you up,” by the late Barry White. Too bad no-one has ever written a song about the bipolar blues. Another aspect of this disorder, as one who really loves his spouse soon to be ex spouse, is that when the disease, the mania kicks in, the anti-self, its as though you are dealing with a child: not to sound insulting, but there are characteristics of being highly impulsive, irrationality, extreme mood swings, aside from a host of things you just don’t think you will ever understand.
Here is an adventure I had with impulse buying:
After our initial separation and our reuniting (cause it felt so good), I didn’t stop to think about how the money was going out the window, let alone, walking out the door. In fact, because I am the type of person who loves peace and quiet, I had grown immune to what anyone could see was spending gone wild. Enter the computer summit of 2009. I made the decision that it was time to switch computers. My HP was crashing. It was slow, it couldn’t multi-task and frankly I had gotten to the point where I was questioning if it would be able to perform during my dissertation phase. Being the tech geek that I was and still am, I concluded it was time to make the big switch, from PC to Mac. The only problem is that Macs are expensive. I like to think of the PC and windows operating system as GM, where as the Mac is like a Mercedes. As a rule, we felt it was best that we discuss big-ticket purchase items. The way our budget was then, 150 dollars and up required a sit-down or meeting to discuss if the purchase was feasible. My Mac was no different. We were talking about it in what I like to refer to as “our bubble,” the bedroom/office.
“Jean,” I say, “You know my student aid money is coming in January. You also know my PC crashed this summer, I really want to get another computer and I have been pricing the Apple machines. I really want to get the MacBook Pro.”
Money and Jean, I need to add have an odd relationship of sorts. For her, money provides a sense of safety and security, as it should with anybody. I, on the other hand, am not that attached to money. Maybe it was because I was buffered from any lack of money as I like to think my grandfather was a tobacco farmer on the side compared to his day job as a prison boiler plant supervisor. By no stretch of he imagination was my family rich, I was just buffered. Adding to that, the symbolism of money was shattered to me at an early age. My mom’s companion was the Black Diogenes, Socrates gone mad. He was the anti materialist. He drove around in clunkers or what we call hoop-tees. Three things were important to him, his house, his books and his two families, his legal wife and child and his cloaked wife and adopted stepchild. Oh yes, he valued education over anything else. I’ll never forget this, when I was offered a two-month scholarship to study journalism at Northwestern University, I actually wanted to stay home and make money to pay off my credit cards. He and my mom were like, NO! This is a once in a life time opportunity. You’ve won a competitive scholarship at the age of 19. So, off to Chicago you go! Never mind it was for two months. But I had fun and learn an odd lesson with money. Scholarship supersedes debt. In hindsight, it’s a nasty rationalization I learned. This was only furthered with his $50.00 Christmas party trick. One Christmas he wanted to demonstrate that he was not a slave to money. So what did he do, he took out a crisp $50.00 bill and burned it up in smoke. This was to teach me that money only has power, when you give it power. This strangely was my introduction to existentialism. Anyway back to our summit, Jean was lukewarm to the idea of my new Mac.
“I know you want this computer, can’t you write a grant to get it?”
“Jean, the grant process takes time. I simply don’t have the time nor the interest in writing a grant to get the computer I know I need.”
“Honey, how much are you planning to spend on it?” she asks.
“Well, like I said, they are pricey, but the upside is that I don’t have to buy anymore virus software.” I thought this would be a selling point.
“Ok but how much?”
“Well the one I want is going to cost $1800.00.” This is what I ironically call the pregnant pause. Only a husband really knows how the mind of their spouse works. Remember, we don’t have arguments, we have full-blown conference debates which are more civil spoken from positions of fact rather than emotion. The only problem is that the facts are emotionally driven. On to round two: Jean opens,
“I’ve been doing some checking, I think you can get a refurbished Mac for a little less. When I went on the Apple website, you can get this computer for $300.00 less.” Here is where I become defensive,
“May I ask you a question please? Why is it when you want something, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, but when I want something, we have to really debate it. When you bought that E-machine a year ago, I bit my lip and shut my mouth. When you went to Europe earlier in December, with a grant, knowing my objections you still went? For you, I demonstrate deference through compromise, where as for me, I’m shown the balance sheet. Why?”
“Honey, I didn’t say you couldn’t get the computer,”
Enter knee jerk response,
“Well, thank you dear, that said, I don’t remember seeking your permission to do so.” Ok wrong thing to say, but as one who is sensitive to language, it just came out.
“What I am saying Michael,” oh shit, when she says Michael, it’s a new dynamic,
“is that there are different ways to do it. If you write a grant, it doesn’t come out of your pocket. That’s the only reason I went to Germany.” This is where I have one of those ‘my life is a sitcom moments’ because I do realize she has a point, but the male testosterone refuses to let me give in, so what do I do?
“I need a time out.” So as I take my time out, going down the stairs I’m admittedly having my own temper tantrum, “Damn I can’t believe this shit. Why is it that I can’t get what I want ,with my own damn money, without a fucking debate. I know I’m 38 years old. It says so on my drivers license, but I feel like I’m fucking thirteen. I know I’m grown, I have a job, I pay a mortgage, I pay a car note, I’m taking care of my family yet I have to say wife, may I? I can’t believe the audacity behind this shit. I have to actually ask my wife, darling, may I please spend my own damn money? If I don’t, then she’s going to get her fucking jaws tight. Ain’t this some shit? I don’t give a damn, fuck it. So what if she’s right, its still my damn money. The 5000 dollar check is written to me damn it. Shit.” Now mind you, I am saying all this in my mind; not out loud, because again, I want peace and quiet. From there, I looked at my TV set. This is a bad-ass TV if I do say so myself. Not for its functionality, but how I got it. I paid only 178 dollars for it. A 36 inch television set that I only paid 178 dollars for. Hmm. Craigslist! Ok everybody’s happy, I save money, I get my computer and everybody’s happy. So after I go upstairs and propose the new idea she seems happy, and I can go to sleep with peace and quiet, well almost peace and quiet, our two year-old, Red Chief is well, he and sleep still don’t vibe yet. Ok so I get my Mac, paying 1300 dollars for it. I am in Mac heaven until I have to purchase a new hard-drive. Now I know why the son of a bitch was so damn cheap. Now fast forward to May of the same year. The conversation is brief but we have it anyway.
“Michael, I need to upgrade computers.” Oh no, I hear the rock falling into the bottomless pit. I can’t object because I just bought my Mac. All I can say is OK. Off to the best buy we go and 600 dollars is gone just like that because I was allowed to spend 1300 dollars on my Mac. I lug the computers and the boxes upstairs trying to keep my mouth shut because I want to be fair; why, because I just spend 1300 dollars on a Mac. Why are we buying this computer again honey?
“Because I need it for my online teaching.” All I can say is OK, why because I just spent $1300.00 on my Mac. So at this point we have how many computers in our house. Lets see there is the E-machine she had before we were married, then there was the Compac I had which I used strictly as my Frankenstein computer (my computer I was going to turn into a monster when I had time) then there was the other E-Machine she purchased only a year ago, there was my HP that I purchased when I started my Ph.D. program, then there was her IBM laptop she purchased with a grant, there was my new Mac and now her new Dell. In short we had enough computers to run our own business. Alrighty then. August when we get back together, as she rolls into the court room, she pops up with a new, BRAND New Sony Viao laptop. The Viao was like the corvette of PCs. It incidentally costs $2000.00. I’m too happy that we are getting back together so I ignore the purchase for now but you could add another computer to the mix. What I was noticing was that all her computers were grossly infected with viruses or spyware, where as me, I was chugging along, When I buy items particularly computer hardware, I’m going to take care of it, take it through serious maintenance to keep it running correctly at all costs because I am that dependent upon them. So again, the Mac is the computer for me. We go shopping one day, I had come into a little good fortune and I wanted to treat the family out to a nice dinner. Right after dinner, we go to the shoe store. She bought what I thought was one pair of Danskos. To their credit, they are incredible shoes, which are worth the money. I bought a pair a year and a half ago and not only are they comfortable on my feet but they last. Danskos are good business professional clogs that are worth the $120.00. In fact my purchasing philosophy is this, buy what has the long term return on the investment. I apply this to many of my big ticket items and some small ones. This is why I will buy K-Swiss classic sneakers. They are like Volvos, you can’t kill them. Same with the Danskos, you can’t kill them either. That said, Jean buys one pair that I see. Three days later, two additional pairs come to the house. So I am taking a look at all the money that’s been spent inside of a summer. One $600.00 computer, one $2000.00 laptop, 3 pairs of shoes totaling $360.00. Incidentally, the shoe purchases really hit an all time high when at the start of our separation I discovered she purchased a $260.00 pair of sneakers. Not Jordans, but orthopedic sneakers and yes, I was still being tapped for money by Jean. So shoe-wise, I saw 620 dollars walking out the door literally. These no-nos were not Manolos. They were Danskos. Rick James said cocaine is a hell of a drug, manic-depression, it’s a hell of a disorder.
There is the co-parent who is mentally sober and then there is the co-parent who is not. I have the challenge of working with both. I came to an interesting milestone of sorts recently. It has now been six months since the separation. Six months. Do I still get angry, yes. Do I still miss her, yes, Do I still want our relationship to work itself out, yes. Do I still have a candle in the window, no. These are the times I play that song by Carol King, “Well its too late baby, yes it’s too late, though we really did try and make it.” Then there are times when I hear other songs like “Never ever going to give you up,” by the late Barry White. Too bad no-one has ever written a song about the bipolar blues. Another aspect of this disorder, as one who really loves his spouse soon to be ex spouse, is that when the disease, the mania kicks in, the anti-self, its as though you are dealing with a child: not to sound insulting, but there are characteristics of being highly impulsive, irrationality, extreme mood swings, aside from a host of things you just don’t think you will ever understand.
Here is an adventure I had with impulse buying:
After our initial separation and our reuniting (cause it felt so good), I didn’t stop to think about how the money was going out the window, let alone, walking out the door. In fact, because I am the type of person who loves peace and quiet, I had grown immune to what anyone could see was spending gone wild. Enter the computer summit of 2009. I made the decision that it was time to switch computers. My HP was crashing. It was slow, it couldn’t multi-task and frankly I had gotten to the point where I was questioning if it would be able to perform during my dissertation phase. Being the tech geek that I was and still am, I concluded it was time to make the big switch, from PC to Mac. The only problem is that Macs are expensive. I like to think of the PC and windows operating system as GM, where as the Mac is like a Mercedes. As a rule, we felt it was best that we discuss big-ticket purchase items. The way our budget was then, 150 dollars and up required a sit-down or meeting to discuss if the purchase was feasible. My Mac was no different. We were talking about it in what I like to refer to as “our bubble,” the bedroom/office.
“Jean,” I say, “You know my student aid money is coming in January. You also know my PC crashed this summer, I really want to get another computer and I have been pricing the Apple machines. I really want to get the MacBook Pro.”
Money and Jean, I need to add have an odd relationship of sorts. For her, money provides a sense of safety and security, as it should with anybody. I, on the other hand, am not that attached to money. Maybe it was because I was buffered from any lack of money as I like to think my grandfather was a tobacco farmer on the side compared to his day job as a prison boiler plant supervisor. By no stretch of he imagination was my family rich, I was just buffered. Adding to that, the symbolism of money was shattered to me at an early age. My mom’s companion was the Black Diogenes, Socrates gone mad. He was the anti materialist. He drove around in clunkers or what we call hoop-tees. Three things were important to him, his house, his books and his two families, his legal wife and child and his cloaked wife and adopted stepchild. Oh yes, he valued education over anything else. I’ll never forget this, when I was offered a two-month scholarship to study journalism at Northwestern University, I actually wanted to stay home and make money to pay off my credit cards. He and my mom were like, NO! This is a once in a life time opportunity. You’ve won a competitive scholarship at the age of 19. So, off to Chicago you go! Never mind it was for two months. But I had fun and learn an odd lesson with money. Scholarship supersedes debt. In hindsight, it’s a nasty rationalization I learned. This was only furthered with his $50.00 Christmas party trick. One Christmas he wanted to demonstrate that he was not a slave to money. So what did he do, he took out a crisp $50.00 bill and burned it up in smoke. This was to teach me that money only has power, when you give it power. This strangely was my introduction to existentialism. Anyway back to our summit, Jean was lukewarm to the idea of my new Mac.
“I know you want this computer, can’t you write a grant to get it?”
“Jean, the grant process takes time. I simply don’t have the time nor the interest in writing a grant to get the computer I know I need.”
“Honey, how much are you planning to spend on it?” she asks.
“Well, like I said, they are pricey, but the upside is that I don’t have to buy anymore virus software.” I thought this would be a selling point.
“Ok but how much?”
“Well the one I want is going to cost $1800.00.” This is what I ironically call the pregnant pause. Only a husband really knows how the mind of their spouse works. Remember, we don’t have arguments, we have full-blown conference debates which are more civil spoken from positions of fact rather than emotion. The only problem is that the facts are emotionally driven. On to round two: Jean opens,
“I’ve been doing some checking, I think you can get a refurbished Mac for a little less. When I went on the Apple website, you can get this computer for $300.00 less.” Here is where I become defensive,
“May I ask you a question please? Why is it when you want something, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, but when I want something, we have to really debate it. When you bought that E-machine a year ago, I bit my lip and shut my mouth. When you went to Europe earlier in December, with a grant, knowing my objections you still went? For you, I demonstrate deference through compromise, where as for me, I’m shown the balance sheet. Why?”
“Honey, I didn’t say you couldn’t get the computer,”
Enter knee jerk response,
“Well, thank you dear, that said, I don’t remember seeking your permission to do so.” Ok wrong thing to say, but as one who is sensitive to language, it just came out.
“What I am saying Michael,” oh shit, when she says Michael, it’s a new dynamic,
“is that there are different ways to do it. If you write a grant, it doesn’t come out of your pocket. That’s the only reason I went to Germany.” This is where I have one of those ‘my life is a sitcom moments’ because I do realize she has a point, but the male testosterone refuses to let me give in, so what do I do?
“I need a time out.” So as I take my time out, going down the stairs I’m admittedly having my own temper tantrum, “Damn I can’t believe this shit. Why is it that I can’t get what I want ,with my own damn money, without a fucking debate. I know I’m 38 years old. It says so on my drivers license, but I feel like I’m fucking thirteen. I know I’m grown, I have a job, I pay a mortgage, I pay a car note, I’m taking care of my family yet I have to say wife, may I? I can’t believe the audacity behind this shit. I have to actually ask my wife, darling, may I please spend my own damn money? If I don’t, then she’s going to get her fucking jaws tight. Ain’t this some shit? I don’t give a damn, fuck it. So what if she’s right, its still my damn money. The 5000 dollar check is written to me damn it. Shit.” Now mind you, I am saying all this in my mind; not out loud, because again, I want peace and quiet. From there, I looked at my TV set. This is a bad-ass TV if I do say so myself. Not for its functionality, but how I got it. I paid only 178 dollars for it. A 36 inch television set that I only paid 178 dollars for. Hmm. Craigslist! Ok everybody’s happy, I save money, I get my computer and everybody’s happy. So after I go upstairs and propose the new idea she seems happy, and I can go to sleep with peace and quiet, well almost peace and quiet, our two year-old, Red Chief is well, he and sleep still don’t vibe yet. Ok so I get my Mac, paying 1300 dollars for it. I am in Mac heaven until I have to purchase a new hard-drive. Now I know why the son of a bitch was so damn cheap. Now fast forward to May of the same year. The conversation is brief but we have it anyway.
“Michael, I need to upgrade computers.” Oh no, I hear the rock falling into the bottomless pit. I can’t object because I just bought my Mac. All I can say is OK. Off to the best buy we go and 600 dollars is gone just like that because I was allowed to spend 1300 dollars on my Mac. I lug the computers and the boxes upstairs trying to keep my mouth shut because I want to be fair; why, because I just spend 1300 dollars on a Mac. Why are we buying this computer again honey?
“Because I need it for my online teaching.” All I can say is OK, why because I just spent $1300.00 on my Mac. So at this point we have how many computers in our house. Lets see there is the E-machine she had before we were married, then there was the Compac I had which I used strictly as my Frankenstein computer (my computer I was going to turn into a monster when I had time) then there was the other E-Machine she purchased only a year ago, there was my HP that I purchased when I started my Ph.D. program, then there was her IBM laptop she purchased with a grant, there was my new Mac and now her new Dell. In short we had enough computers to run our own business. Alrighty then. August when we get back together, as she rolls into the court room, she pops up with a new, BRAND New Sony Viao laptop. The Viao was like the corvette of PCs. It incidentally costs $2000.00. I’m too happy that we are getting back together so I ignore the purchase for now but you could add another computer to the mix. What I was noticing was that all her computers were grossly infected with viruses or spyware, where as me, I was chugging along, When I buy items particularly computer hardware, I’m going to take care of it, take it through serious maintenance to keep it running correctly at all costs because I am that dependent upon them. So again, the Mac is the computer for me. We go shopping one day, I had come into a little good fortune and I wanted to treat the family out to a nice dinner. Right after dinner, we go to the shoe store. She bought what I thought was one pair of Danskos. To their credit, they are incredible shoes, which are worth the money. I bought a pair a year and a half ago and not only are they comfortable on my feet but they last. Danskos are good business professional clogs that are worth the $120.00. In fact my purchasing philosophy is this, buy what has the long term return on the investment. I apply this to many of my big ticket items and some small ones. This is why I will buy K-Swiss classic sneakers. They are like Volvos, you can’t kill them. Same with the Danskos, you can’t kill them either. That said, Jean buys one pair that I see. Three days later, two additional pairs come to the house. So I am taking a look at all the money that’s been spent inside of a summer. One $600.00 computer, one $2000.00 laptop, 3 pairs of shoes totaling $360.00. Incidentally, the shoe purchases really hit an all time high when at the start of our separation I discovered she purchased a $260.00 pair of sneakers. Not Jordans, but orthopedic sneakers and yes, I was still being tapped for money by Jean. So shoe-wise, I saw 620 dollars walking out the door literally. These no-nos were not Manolos. They were Danskos. Rick James said cocaine is a hell of a drug, manic-depression, it’s a hell of a disorder.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Life Everlasting
Release is important to say the least. Without release, pressure will build and as that happens, you will eventually run the risk of some type of blow out. Be it a heart attack, or a stroke, cancer, stress is no fun. Stress can kill you. I recently heard of a guy who was a few years younger than me who suffered a stroke. On my dad’s side of the family, they rarely died from cancer but, strokes, heart attacks, well, I am genetically predisposed. Chalk that up for another reason I go to the gym, my health. As far as my sanity, the gym helps me with that too. Writing is another form of release. But right now, the best release is learning the new sport of weight lifting, which is why am seeking the assistance of a weight lifting coach.
Speaking of which, I actually made contact with two Olympic competitors and one has written me back with excellent information. I am so grateful. If that works out, man I am going to be so psyched! I get to learn something new and really apply my strength gains. I also went the other day and purchased some new weight lifting straps. I hate breaking in new straps because you have a tendency to do as I did, drop the weights, which is not too cool. Its early June and right now I am at 365 pounds – what I currently dead lift, so I am about 35 pounds away from my 40th birthday goal, 400 pounds. I am hoping that these new straps can help me but like any weight lifting goal there has to be some preparation, otherwise one can wined up on their back with a bad back. So one has got to properly warm up, stretch, (I now a have greater appreciation for Mr. Wood, my 7th grade gym teacher and assistant football coach). Last night as I was breaking in my new straps, warming up with 315 pounds, I really had to govern myself. Again, failure to do so as it did last night wound up in not being able to control my weight on the bar. Other lifts I have been working on include the push press—which right now I am up to 185 pounds. The Olympic lift (which I really shouldn’t be doing in a commercial gym) I am now able to complete 155 pounds max. I think this is divided into the clean and jerk, but then again, I need a coach. Multiple reasons here: the first is form. I must learn the form. Failure to learn the form is like planning to fail. Second, it will help me to prevent injury. Third, I think it will also provide an avenue for peer coaching.
On a professional note, while waiting for the IRB, I got note on my first teaching assignment for the up coming semester. Right now its one class but opportunity, well its where is where you mine it. As with where I was prior to, it started with two classes, then three, then summer school, then a full load. What I like about this is that I am actually going to be doing it on my own. No help from the family just me. That is gratifying. In my crazy way of thinking, there will be no more straw people, strictly me, that too can be seen as a form of liberation. I will be writing my first syllabus within a year and I will be teaching among folks who have read the texts I’ve read, and know the things I know. That’s going to be emotionally lifting, while intellectually, simply a high. Now back to the other part of the sitcom called my life, dysfunction junction, also known as the separation.
The other part of release, when in the middle of a separation, some days your ex will rock your body and your last nerve, and I don’t mean that in a Justin Timberlake way. In my case, I can’t blame the ex as much as I blame the disorder for causing my ex to do things that to me are really off the chain. Without going into the details, the one thing I have had to learn is always expect the unexpected. Just the other day there was an issue on the table with Red Chief and of course, with the ill communication it drove me to finally say enough. Enough, enough enough. Yesterday, I just had to speak my mind, what little I have left at this point. I think what had me properly pissed was the fact that now my own words were being used against me. I am like, come on already. Enough with the games, I don’t have time for them. I just don’t. So as calmly as I could, I responded as professionally as professionality would allow. The one thing I can say as the fog lifts, there is a type of new found knowledge that you gain. You start learning words like rationalization, manipulation, minimization, diversion, projection, and, guilt tripping. Needless to say, these were just some of the thoughts that came from my fingers and hit the keyboard. To finally call it as I saw it, was overdue. Like I said, release at this point was synonymous to going to the pottee and having a good bowel movement. Ok, maybe a disgusting analogy, but you have got to get the point. As it came out, I started to feel relieved. See that is the sad part about this disorder. People are not cognizant of their own behavior. The other thing that is important is that I am standing up for myself and saying, please go get some damn help. Talking with another professional in the psych industry yesterday, he shared with me, what I continue to hear over and over and over again.
The only thing I can do, and probably the best thing I can do, is take care of myself. Next, hope and pray that in due time, she will come to some type of cognizance, a cognizance that says to herself, she needs help. If we are lucky, blessed, this will happen before something more severe occurs. Maybe we will go to couples therapy, but going on six months of being separated, the main therapy I am concerned with is family therapy. I want to make sure Red Chief has two parents who are healthy and can take care of him. But the reality I have to adjust to predicates; it takes two who are committed to the same goal. In this case, her motional sobriety. One of the questions I asked Jean yesterday was, what’s more important, your having your way, or you getting the treatment you need for our child? When a person is put on WBLAST like that, and they don’t answer the question, that tells me that you would rather live in a state of toxicity, and you would rather parent in an a hazed state. A linguistic term for it is Stonewalling. What I am seeing is what is called mania. From the outside in, its as though I am looking at the anti-Jean. Mad denial, (another term I have come familiar with). It’s not me, it’s not me. See in the mind of the manic, when the manic is angry, their perceptions are their reality and nothing can rid their mind of that. What’s worse is the angry manic who knows how to use systems can be exceptionally dangerous because they can masquerade, especially when they have credentials of their own which allow them access to various systems. The angry manic has to be disarmed because if they are not, I don’t want to think about it. My story is living proof of what an angry manic can do. Every time I talk to a professional about the symptoms, they all say the same thing, until they recognize they have a problem, there is nothing that can be done. Now I understand what my Great Grand Mother said, “Life, Everlasting.”
Speaking of which, I actually made contact with two Olympic competitors and one has written me back with excellent information. I am so grateful. If that works out, man I am going to be so psyched! I get to learn something new and really apply my strength gains. I also went the other day and purchased some new weight lifting straps. I hate breaking in new straps because you have a tendency to do as I did, drop the weights, which is not too cool. Its early June and right now I am at 365 pounds – what I currently dead lift, so I am about 35 pounds away from my 40th birthday goal, 400 pounds. I am hoping that these new straps can help me but like any weight lifting goal there has to be some preparation, otherwise one can wined up on their back with a bad back. So one has got to properly warm up, stretch, (I now a have greater appreciation for Mr. Wood, my 7th grade gym teacher and assistant football coach). Last night as I was breaking in my new straps, warming up with 315 pounds, I really had to govern myself. Again, failure to do so as it did last night wound up in not being able to control my weight on the bar. Other lifts I have been working on include the push press—which right now I am up to 185 pounds. The Olympic lift (which I really shouldn’t be doing in a commercial gym) I am now able to complete 155 pounds max. I think this is divided into the clean and jerk, but then again, I need a coach. Multiple reasons here: the first is form. I must learn the form. Failure to learn the form is like planning to fail. Second, it will help me to prevent injury. Third, I think it will also provide an avenue for peer coaching.
On a professional note, while waiting for the IRB, I got note on my first teaching assignment for the up coming semester. Right now its one class but opportunity, well its where is where you mine it. As with where I was prior to, it started with two classes, then three, then summer school, then a full load. What I like about this is that I am actually going to be doing it on my own. No help from the family just me. That is gratifying. In my crazy way of thinking, there will be no more straw people, strictly me, that too can be seen as a form of liberation. I will be writing my first syllabus within a year and I will be teaching among folks who have read the texts I’ve read, and know the things I know. That’s going to be emotionally lifting, while intellectually, simply a high. Now back to the other part of the sitcom called my life, dysfunction junction, also known as the separation.
The other part of release, when in the middle of a separation, some days your ex will rock your body and your last nerve, and I don’t mean that in a Justin Timberlake way. In my case, I can’t blame the ex as much as I blame the disorder for causing my ex to do things that to me are really off the chain. Without going into the details, the one thing I have had to learn is always expect the unexpected. Just the other day there was an issue on the table with Red Chief and of course, with the ill communication it drove me to finally say enough. Enough, enough enough. Yesterday, I just had to speak my mind, what little I have left at this point. I think what had me properly pissed was the fact that now my own words were being used against me. I am like, come on already. Enough with the games, I don’t have time for them. I just don’t. So as calmly as I could, I responded as professionally as professionality would allow. The one thing I can say as the fog lifts, there is a type of new found knowledge that you gain. You start learning words like rationalization, manipulation, minimization, diversion, projection, and, guilt tripping. Needless to say, these were just some of the thoughts that came from my fingers and hit the keyboard. To finally call it as I saw it, was overdue. Like I said, release at this point was synonymous to going to the pottee and having a good bowel movement. Ok, maybe a disgusting analogy, but you have got to get the point. As it came out, I started to feel relieved. See that is the sad part about this disorder. People are not cognizant of their own behavior. The other thing that is important is that I am standing up for myself and saying, please go get some damn help. Talking with another professional in the psych industry yesterday, he shared with me, what I continue to hear over and over and over again.
The only thing I can do, and probably the best thing I can do, is take care of myself. Next, hope and pray that in due time, she will come to some type of cognizance, a cognizance that says to herself, she needs help. If we are lucky, blessed, this will happen before something more severe occurs. Maybe we will go to couples therapy, but going on six months of being separated, the main therapy I am concerned with is family therapy. I want to make sure Red Chief has two parents who are healthy and can take care of him. But the reality I have to adjust to predicates; it takes two who are committed to the same goal. In this case, her motional sobriety. One of the questions I asked Jean yesterday was, what’s more important, your having your way, or you getting the treatment you need for our child? When a person is put on WBLAST like that, and they don’t answer the question, that tells me that you would rather live in a state of toxicity, and you would rather parent in an a hazed state. A linguistic term for it is Stonewalling. What I am seeing is what is called mania. From the outside in, its as though I am looking at the anti-Jean. Mad denial, (another term I have come familiar with). It’s not me, it’s not me. See in the mind of the manic, when the manic is angry, their perceptions are their reality and nothing can rid their mind of that. What’s worse is the angry manic who knows how to use systems can be exceptionally dangerous because they can masquerade, especially when they have credentials of their own which allow them access to various systems. The angry manic has to be disarmed because if they are not, I don’t want to think about it. My story is living proof of what an angry manic can do. Every time I talk to a professional about the symptoms, they all say the same thing, until they recognize they have a problem, there is nothing that can be done. Now I understand what my Great Grand Mother said, “Life, Everlasting.”
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Anatomy of Insanity
“Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, Don’t stop, it will soon be here, It will be here, better than before, yesterday’s gone, don’t you look back.” Fleetwood Mac
Another truism of separation, particularly when there is the hint of mental illness is that, you, as the one who does not have the burden of mastering the mental illness, are still highly vulnerable of becoming, consumed, by your spouses, ex-souses, or, co-parent’s illness. I learned this at my bipolar support group. Maybe I shouldn’t say I learned this; I should say I speak from experience. I would be a liar if I did not say that I had acute bouts of depression, anxiety, and straight out frustration. The questions that remain are how do I channel these tensions and how do I focus them into something constructive?
There have been times when I wanted to lash out at the illness, and if it had a physical form, trust me, I would be looking for it, like someone who stole my lunch money. I mean when you think about it, the denial of this illness has taken, from me people I love, people I trusted. At the risk of self-pity, it has just been plain wrong. Sure there have been moments when I wanted to step in, and go back to try and make the relationship work, if only for the sake of our child. But then, by doing just that, the action would personify, insanity. Ironically, a high school student told me something that made a hell of a lot of sense: There is no future in history. Simplistic, yet so true. I too, used to have a mantra which says this: never visit the same watering hole twice. Both phrases say the same thing; revisiting the past, without changes in your present, in hopes of different future, represents the insane. Better put, in the words of my grandfather, to do this, you would be a damned fool.
So how do I combat the moments when insanity tries to creep in?
Two things I can suggest immediately. Work, work, and more work. Thank God I have my dissertation to keep me busy. I recently made changes to my IRB document while my advisor was in Ireland. Of course you know, I begged her to bring back a bottle of authentic Irish whisky. Needless to say, her reply was on the lines of this, you don’t drink and drive so you don’t drink and write a dissertation. When your dissertation is done, I’ll buy bottles for the both of us. Have I really been that worrisome of a student; probably. But that said, the anticipation of actually being finished with the title of Ph.D. despite all of this, has kept my mind out of some fairly dangerous places. I was reading one of my books on separation and divorce and the authors stated that the suicide rate for those in the middle of a divorce is pretty high. That’s scary but true. Again, because I have my work to keep me busy, in addition to the foreboding voice ripping at me, how dare you throw your life away, how dare you allow another person to have this type of power over you, how dare you not be here for your son, I stayed away from that ugly haunting spot. I did not go quietly into that good night. I’ve come too far by faith, family, and some pretty candid friends to even think about something like that. Despite the theme from M*A*S*H, suicide is, not, painless. It’s pretty damn messy. I abhor violence and simply have a low tolerance for pain, so know this for the record, that obscene thought, never crossed my mind. Even those who know me will tell you right now, he would never do that. He’s too much of a coward. He can’t stand pain. That said I would have to agree. Here’s an example. Before we were married, Jean and I obviously were engaged. I can recall a year before the wedding, I was laying on the sofa at her house. I was howling like a wounded dog, literally. Jean loved to medicalize everything where as me, hell, I liked to macho the pain away. It’s the David Hasselhoff side of me. As I was trying to say I can take it, with tears coming out my eyes, she’s like how much Tylenol do you think you can take? You’ve had damn near two bottles. Again, denial is a bitch, along with male pride. I can take it! As I put my face back in the pillow. Sure, you can take it, but you aren’t taking anymore Tylenol. I was like good, lets go get some vicodine. She’s like no, we are going to the dentist. Again, the male ego kicked in, along with some Fred Sanford-ian type philosophy. I don’t need no damned dentist, I need some damn pills! Well, needless to say I lost the battle. After calling the dentist and making an appointment to have the injurious wisdom teeth removed, the dentist prescribed for me the last bout of antibiotics and vicodine. The day of the extraction, you could not pull me out of the car. I mean just hearing the dentist/oral surgeon tell me the procedure, it was just too painful to sit for. I calmly asked the dentist, “You don’t actually expect me to sit here, while you crack open my jaw and pull these teeth out?” He’s like of course not, that’s why we are going to use this intravenous drip sedation. I wasn’t too thrilled about that big needle they put in my mouth to put my jaw to sleep. But when they put that i.v. in my arm, oh man, time and pain were irrelevant. That is until the very next day. The pain in my mouth, the pain in my jaw, the stitches in my mouth, oh I was properly pissed, because not only did I now have more pain, but it hurt to even yell about it. I was so disgusted. But again, I share all that to say, I hate pain. Hence suicide was never an option.
The second thing that kept me away from that nasty place was keeping my mind and body occupied at the same time. Many people when they are faced with stress, they blow-up-tu-ate. This translates into an unhealthy relationship with food. For me, when I am depressed I do the exact opposite, for some reason I cannot eat. I won’t even drink alcohol. When Jean’s brother called and chastised me the first time she left, his words left an indelible shit stain on my brain. Asking me, what type of man are you, I heard that song that was in the Ray Charles movie and when food was in my presence, I could not eat. I honestly felt as though I wasn’t worthy enough to eat food. Talk about psychological irreconcilable differences for that ass. Sad but true, my power was so impaled in my spouse and then to connect that with my son, I felt as though I wasn’t entitled to eat food because I was in a lower class of species. It took me about two months to finally realize that I was worthy to eat food in my own home. The second time Jean left, I was too keyed up. I could not eat once again. I wasn’t too depressed as much, as I was in fight or flight mode. I had too much work to do to slow down to eat. Food was a luxury at the time. I could do nothing but concentrate on getting the bogus charges from around my neck and do whatever it took to clear my name and get my son back with me. So again, after a 30 day period of eating marginally, I went from 173 to 155 pounds. Prior to the first separation, I was at 185 pounds. Ok so I lost weight, but not in a healthy way. Again, I too had established an unhealthy relationship with food. What I needed was motivation. I had to take my mind from the legal battles so that I could function if only at a nominal level. What did I do? I went to the gym. One hour became two hours, two hours became two days, two days became four and guess what, I got hungry. I physically started to become hungry again. Living with two folks who are in their sixties, you don’t always eat the best food, but regardless, I found that my weight was coming back. It was muscle, not fat. I also found my inner athlete. I don’t know how, but I found myself getting physically stronger. I could run 3 miles in 28 minutes. It was not a world record, but hey that was faster than my 5k time in 2008. I discovered dead lifting. At a body weigh of 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 225 pounds, then 235 then 275, then one day, at 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 315 pounds, not once but for actual repetitions. I was squatting 235 pounds, again for repetitions. Then, I found I was challenging myself, what was this thing called Olympic lifting. What were these things called push presses. Why was I dead lifting 365 pounds? Why was I leg pressing 700 pounds and not on drugs? I had never done that before. I found I was setting goals which if you were to ask me two years ago to do it, I would have said, you, are on that extra good shit. Now, I am trying to find an actual weightlifting coach. I want to learn the sport of power lifting. At present time, my goal is to dead lift 400 pounds before my 40th birthday. Do I want to look like a monstrous hulk? No. I plan to keep my body as it is, while still setting, meeting, and exceeding my personal athletic and fitness goals.
In doing these two things, I have managed to stay far away from the whirlpool called insanity and the nasty hell of self-destruction. I have come to realize that, I do have value and an identity beyond that of my married life. I love my life. Do I love every decision I’ve made? The short answer, is no. Extending on that thought, who does? Was getting married a mistake; of course not. Did I do some things that were wrong? Yes, hell yes. Am I a bad person behind it? No. Inside of my mistakes, inside of my short-comings, and even in my null accomplishments, I have to embrace all aspects of the journey. I hope I don’t make the same mistakes twice but if I do, (which again, I hope I don’t) I am not a bad person, it just means I am hard-headed. The biggest mistake I made and the most valuable lesson I learned is this: never surrender your power. Never, ever, surrender your power. I did, and I paid an inordinate price for that. My self-esteem was shattered, as I allowed it to be prescribed by others. Instead, I, now write the prescription for the antidotes, I, choose to take.
Another truism of separation, particularly when there is the hint of mental illness is that, you, as the one who does not have the burden of mastering the mental illness, are still highly vulnerable of becoming, consumed, by your spouses, ex-souses, or, co-parent’s illness. I learned this at my bipolar support group. Maybe I shouldn’t say I learned this; I should say I speak from experience. I would be a liar if I did not say that I had acute bouts of depression, anxiety, and straight out frustration. The questions that remain are how do I channel these tensions and how do I focus them into something constructive?
There have been times when I wanted to lash out at the illness, and if it had a physical form, trust me, I would be looking for it, like someone who stole my lunch money. I mean when you think about it, the denial of this illness has taken, from me people I love, people I trusted. At the risk of self-pity, it has just been plain wrong. Sure there have been moments when I wanted to step in, and go back to try and make the relationship work, if only for the sake of our child. But then, by doing just that, the action would personify, insanity. Ironically, a high school student told me something that made a hell of a lot of sense: There is no future in history. Simplistic, yet so true. I too, used to have a mantra which says this: never visit the same watering hole twice. Both phrases say the same thing; revisiting the past, without changes in your present, in hopes of different future, represents the insane. Better put, in the words of my grandfather, to do this, you would be a damned fool.
So how do I combat the moments when insanity tries to creep in?
Two things I can suggest immediately. Work, work, and more work. Thank God I have my dissertation to keep me busy. I recently made changes to my IRB document while my advisor was in Ireland. Of course you know, I begged her to bring back a bottle of authentic Irish whisky. Needless to say, her reply was on the lines of this, you don’t drink and drive so you don’t drink and write a dissertation. When your dissertation is done, I’ll buy bottles for the both of us. Have I really been that worrisome of a student; probably. But that said, the anticipation of actually being finished with the title of Ph.D. despite all of this, has kept my mind out of some fairly dangerous places. I was reading one of my books on separation and divorce and the authors stated that the suicide rate for those in the middle of a divorce is pretty high. That’s scary but true. Again, because I have my work to keep me busy, in addition to the foreboding voice ripping at me, how dare you throw your life away, how dare you allow another person to have this type of power over you, how dare you not be here for your son, I stayed away from that ugly haunting spot. I did not go quietly into that good night. I’ve come too far by faith, family, and some pretty candid friends to even think about something like that. Despite the theme from M*A*S*H, suicide is, not, painless. It’s pretty damn messy. I abhor violence and simply have a low tolerance for pain, so know this for the record, that obscene thought, never crossed my mind. Even those who know me will tell you right now, he would never do that. He’s too much of a coward. He can’t stand pain. That said I would have to agree. Here’s an example. Before we were married, Jean and I obviously were engaged. I can recall a year before the wedding, I was laying on the sofa at her house. I was howling like a wounded dog, literally. Jean loved to medicalize everything where as me, hell, I liked to macho the pain away. It’s the David Hasselhoff side of me. As I was trying to say I can take it, with tears coming out my eyes, she’s like how much Tylenol do you think you can take? You’ve had damn near two bottles. Again, denial is a bitch, along with male pride. I can take it! As I put my face back in the pillow. Sure, you can take it, but you aren’t taking anymore Tylenol. I was like good, lets go get some vicodine. She’s like no, we are going to the dentist. Again, the male ego kicked in, along with some Fred Sanford-ian type philosophy. I don’t need no damned dentist, I need some damn pills! Well, needless to say I lost the battle. After calling the dentist and making an appointment to have the injurious wisdom teeth removed, the dentist prescribed for me the last bout of antibiotics and vicodine. The day of the extraction, you could not pull me out of the car. I mean just hearing the dentist/oral surgeon tell me the procedure, it was just too painful to sit for. I calmly asked the dentist, “You don’t actually expect me to sit here, while you crack open my jaw and pull these teeth out?” He’s like of course not, that’s why we are going to use this intravenous drip sedation. I wasn’t too thrilled about that big needle they put in my mouth to put my jaw to sleep. But when they put that i.v. in my arm, oh man, time and pain were irrelevant. That is until the very next day. The pain in my mouth, the pain in my jaw, the stitches in my mouth, oh I was properly pissed, because not only did I now have more pain, but it hurt to even yell about it. I was so disgusted. But again, I share all that to say, I hate pain. Hence suicide was never an option.
The second thing that kept me away from that nasty place was keeping my mind and body occupied at the same time. Many people when they are faced with stress, they blow-up-tu-ate. This translates into an unhealthy relationship with food. For me, when I am depressed I do the exact opposite, for some reason I cannot eat. I won’t even drink alcohol. When Jean’s brother called and chastised me the first time she left, his words left an indelible shit stain on my brain. Asking me, what type of man are you, I heard that song that was in the Ray Charles movie and when food was in my presence, I could not eat. I honestly felt as though I wasn’t worthy enough to eat food. Talk about psychological irreconcilable differences for that ass. Sad but true, my power was so impaled in my spouse and then to connect that with my son, I felt as though I wasn’t entitled to eat food because I was in a lower class of species. It took me about two months to finally realize that I was worthy to eat food in my own home. The second time Jean left, I was too keyed up. I could not eat once again. I wasn’t too depressed as much, as I was in fight or flight mode. I had too much work to do to slow down to eat. Food was a luxury at the time. I could do nothing but concentrate on getting the bogus charges from around my neck and do whatever it took to clear my name and get my son back with me. So again, after a 30 day period of eating marginally, I went from 173 to 155 pounds. Prior to the first separation, I was at 185 pounds. Ok so I lost weight, but not in a healthy way. Again, I too had established an unhealthy relationship with food. What I needed was motivation. I had to take my mind from the legal battles so that I could function if only at a nominal level. What did I do? I went to the gym. One hour became two hours, two hours became two days, two days became four and guess what, I got hungry. I physically started to become hungry again. Living with two folks who are in their sixties, you don’t always eat the best food, but regardless, I found that my weight was coming back. It was muscle, not fat. I also found my inner athlete. I don’t know how, but I found myself getting physically stronger. I could run 3 miles in 28 minutes. It was not a world record, but hey that was faster than my 5k time in 2008. I discovered dead lifting. At a body weigh of 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 225 pounds, then 235 then 275, then one day, at 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 315 pounds, not once but for actual repetitions. I was squatting 235 pounds, again for repetitions. Then, I found I was challenging myself, what was this thing called Olympic lifting. What were these things called push presses. Why was I dead lifting 365 pounds? Why was I leg pressing 700 pounds and not on drugs? I had never done that before. I found I was setting goals which if you were to ask me two years ago to do it, I would have said, you, are on that extra good shit. Now, I am trying to find an actual weightlifting coach. I want to learn the sport of power lifting. At present time, my goal is to dead lift 400 pounds before my 40th birthday. Do I want to look like a monstrous hulk? No. I plan to keep my body as it is, while still setting, meeting, and exceeding my personal athletic and fitness goals.
In doing these two things, I have managed to stay far away from the whirlpool called insanity and the nasty hell of self-destruction. I have come to realize that, I do have value and an identity beyond that of my married life. I love my life. Do I love every decision I’ve made? The short answer, is no. Extending on that thought, who does? Was getting married a mistake; of course not. Did I do some things that were wrong? Yes, hell yes. Am I a bad person behind it? No. Inside of my mistakes, inside of my short-comings, and even in my null accomplishments, I have to embrace all aspects of the journey. I hope I don’t make the same mistakes twice but if I do, (which again, I hope I don’t) I am not a bad person, it just means I am hard-headed. The biggest mistake I made and the most valuable lesson I learned is this: never surrender your power. Never, ever, surrender your power. I did, and I paid an inordinate price for that. My self-esteem was shattered, as I allowed it to be prescribed by others. Instead, I, now write the prescription for the antidotes, I, choose to take.
Friday, June 04, 2010
Ain't Nothing but a D-Thing: A Black Man's Journey Through Separation and Divorce
Forward:
If you can remember these three constants about separation and divorce, you may actually make it through:
1) War is Hell
2) Life’s a Bitch and of course,
3) Shit happens.
Its like a three act play when you think about it.
The first act starts the action. One day, after a series of months maybe even years, you will look at your spouse or partner and say, Damn I can’t stand you or your ways anymore. Now, it may not come out that straight forward. Your first act might start with a more passive aggressive tone. You may come home, and be met with your shit at the door. Maybe the locks might be changed. Sometimes, the first act starts like an action movie. You may come home, go upstairs to your closed bedroom door and find your spouse in bed with the best man of your wedding, or your maid of honor. As your jaw drops to the ground, you instantly jump across the bed like a vampire in twilight, going for the throat of your spouse and the transgressor. Or, it might be more coy. You get the phone call about your spouse from the other woman. “I know he’s your husband, but I know he wasn’t your husband when he had that business trip with me in Nashville on January 24th. I can tell you of a certain tattoo located in a rather intimate place.” Or your first act might start out like a mafia movie. You might get the Good Fellas treatment where the brass knuckles are not too far behind. Out of nowhere, absolutely nowhere you are caught off guard. You’re walking off the job and you are met by a process server or deputy sheriff who instructs you, they will escort you to your home where you are able to collect the tools of your trade and a few items of clothes. Why? Because a protective order has been placed against you. Now while you are thinking about committing some of the acts you were accused of, that officer is there to save your life, because in the presence of the officer, you aren’t going to cross the line. In any event, if any of this has happened to you, welcome to the terror dome. You are about to board a rollercoaster ride beyond Space Mountain. War has been declared, and this is not a drill.
Separation/Divorce (War) is Hell, and has, in case you didn’t get the memo, Officially Been Declared
Separation and divorce don’t have to be states of war, however, as human beings, we thrive on conflict. Its like a sick adrenalin rush. We love the smell of war. The pain, strangely connects us back to the human side of life as opposed to bliss. I have yet to hear anyone say, I am in divorce bliss! No, being in a state of war enables us to finally say all that vile venomous vernacular which we have had pent up for months or even years.
I couldn’t stand you, or your damn mama. Kiss my black ass, not my ass hole but my whole entire ass. See what I mean. If you are married, and you are smart, you don’t act on it. You can think about it, but you don’t do it. That said, when the declaration of separation has been issued, war has officially been declared.
Life is a Bitch (and so are you for that matter)
During the separation and even during the divorce, your life will be bitchy. Lets face it, you will become a certifiable bitch. You will be bitching and moaning, why because your life has been completely discombobulated. There will be moments when you are straight-up depressed. Your heart is broken. You are mad not at the world, but at your spouse. That said, the world is a more readily available target, ergo you are hyper sensitive and bordering self-destructive. You may choose to self medicate. It may happen. You may go totally over the edge and make the 6:00 news (in which case you may not be reading this). Or, if you are lucky, truly blessed with family and friends who actually give a damn about your bitchy ass, you may make it. You may actually navigate yourself through this crucial cerebral mind field turning the corner to the next critical step, acceptance.
Shit (and Separation/Divorce) Happens
You can then say shit happens. Yeah, that was a part of my life. You can clearly identify the good parts and the bad parts and embrace both when appropriate. Your outlook on the world wont appear discolored. You can take what you have recently experienced, and just call it a chapter in the book called your life, as opposed to the final act, the curtain call where they lower your ass into the ground.
The purpose of these writings is two-fold. One, for me these writings are cathartic. If you don’t know what that word means, look it up. I consider myself in a process of healing and my journaling represents a healthy constructive antidote to the pain, sleepless nights and the long road to new self-discovery. The second reason for these writings is to help you the reader. I take it if you are reading this, your number just as mine, has come up; so, come on down, you’re the next contestant on catch the beat-down. You can make it. I am not promising that it will be a smooth trip at a cruising altitude of 40,000 feet. There will be times you will want to jump out of the plane without the damned parachute. Certainly, that option is available to you; but as I say that, realize this, bailing is a permanent solution to what really represents a temporary problem. By the time this comes to print, I will probably have the title of Ph.D. beside my name. Disclaimer: I am stating now for the record, that my Ph.D. has little, if anything to do with these writings. Furthermore, no I am not a psychologist, a relationship therapist, or someone with the brand new snake oil to sell. What I am, is you, Joe Ordinary. I, like you have and still in some cases have navigated through the maze of bitterness, toxicity, court, lawyers, child social services, you name it; I’ve had to face it. It ain’t easy. I am hoping that these writings will help you as there weren’t any out there for me, an African American man. I spent nights on the floor, crying at friends homes, searching laboriously through book stores, and for me, there really weren’t that many support services, let alone books or texts on the subject. In social sciences, this is what we would consider a research dearth. In layman’s terms, a hole, in Russell speak, I call it a damn shame. At the risk of sounding political, sure there are texts or books if you will that problematize black men and problematize the relationship between black men and black women; but there are few and far between any books which discuss healthy black marriages, let alone a healthy black divorce. Looking back at my family, I mean my grandparents, on my wedding day, you would never believe that my grandmother took a shot or two at my grandfather with her pistol. Divorce was not practiced in the late 1950s through 1975. Their generation believed in “death do us part.” More times than you would think, death operated as the agent of divorce. But now, if you do go through the divorce, some folk don’t know how to do it in a reasonable manner. When the separation/divorce becomes chaotic, anger driven, and malicious, love then becomes a battlefield. Last I checked; battles have yet to be bloodless. There has yet to be a war where there are no casualties. What’s even worse, if children are involved, they regrettably are the victims of collateral damage. I can speak to that because my parents divorced, and no, they did not prepare the best model for marriage or divorce. It’s only recently that I have now started to dress the wounds from 1978. Going with my mom, not knowing if my parents would get back together again, being one of the first generation latch key kids, anesthetizing myself with television; there are sometimes I wonder, what if my parents did separate and divorce in an amicable way, what would my potential really have been? In short, I am not writing this proposing to know all the answers. Again, this is a form of healing for me and a vehicle for you to possibly see yourself and look at this as one of the many available routes to get through possibly one of the most agonizing experiences you will ever go through.
As I would say, were we in a class setting, I have few a ground rules. They are short, yet still important.
1) No hating. For real, you cannot hate on me, but most important, you can’t hate on yourself.
2) Patience is essential. As you read through my experiences, the expectation is that you, the reader, will take notes about your experiences. How did you find out your relationship was in a terminal state. How did you feel? How did you manage your anger? How did you avoid self-medicating? Questions like these and others are powerful and need to be explored. I encourage you to read this text with others and talk about it. Each one should teach one and you would be amazed at the willful lack of communication we have among ourselves. Establish a meetup group, discuss your experiences in the barber shop. Whatever you do, practice and discuss your experiences.
3) Construct a new life mission. By the time you finish these readings, I expect you to have come full circle with yourself. This means, you should be inspired to re-design a plan to re-connect with yourself. Again, its not going to be easy. But hopefully, through my shared experiences, as comical as they may actually be, I had to do some internal and external make-overs. For me to be successful and provide a home that embraces love for my son, my outlook on life had to change. From that day, I became solution oriented. I became more critical and analytical about my decisions, my journey and the life I wanted to provide for my little boy. You will need to brainstorm and get to the point where you can say, damn it, I do love myself and screw the person who gave me grief and the horse they road in on every day of the week, twice on Sunday. Ironically, that may mean having to look your self in the mirror and saying that to the person on the other side.
4) Honesty is key. If you did some dirt, admit it. There are some things I did, skills I didn’t have.. That said, own it. Does it mean I am a screw up for life? No, in fact it demonstrates maturity. Knowing your limitations, whatever they may be forces cognizance and a means for new learning. Do me and money have a blissful relationship? No. Does it mean I am a failure? No. What it does mean, is that I have to learn skills to establish a better relationship with money. You may need to establish a relationship with communication skills. You may need to establish a relationship with sobriety. Whatever it is, own your limitations. It’s not a condemnation. In fact by owning your limitations, you can then begin to master them. As you own and master your limitations, you then start to become the master of your own fate. Master your limitations; don’t allow your limitations to master you. From there, everything else is a piece of cake baby.
5) I will not go over the cliff with you! Let me repeat that. I WILL NOT go over the cliff with you. It’s that simple; that short; that sweet. I will talk to you in the same manner I have talked to my students. In fact that probably got me the reputation of being that crazy one with the dreads. I have been known to shred my student’s work, literally to prove this one point. I’m hard; but life, life is ten times harder than me. If you don’t have high expectations for yourself, don’t expect me to waste my time with you. Failing my class is one thing. Failing life is something totally different. As long as you put forth the effort to swim, I will not let you drown. I will work with you in the class and outside of the class to make sure you don’t fail my class or life for that matter. That said, I will look over the side of the cliff with you. I will even allow you to tie a rope around me as you decide to explore the other side of the cliff. But when you start dragging me too close to the edge of said cliff, I will take out my machete and cut the rope like Indiana Jones, leaving you like Maxwell House, good to the last drop. That all boils down to my zero tolerance for bull shit. I am not going to bull shit you. Most important you shouldn’t want to bull shit yourself. If in the event bullshit arises, you are to take the book you are reading, to the nearest mirror and sufficiently smack the bullshit out of yourself. Once you have completed this task, you will then be free to move about the cabin, return back to your seat picking the up place in the text where you left off.
Simple isn’t it. Five easy rules to easily reading this text. You will make it. It may take you multiple readings and practice but if you put forth a real effort, be an engaged, active reader, you will make it through this. All I ask is once you have made it through, you pay it forward. Have discussion groups, learn to minimally use lawyers (unless it’s a 911 situation) learn effective means of communication, create your support groups, actively and creatively use therapy, journal: do all this and then some so that you can teach the next one how to get through this. If you can do that, and nothing else works, I’ll help you. But you have got to take the first step. As one of my good friends told me, your past and I are done. I am here in the present, to get you to here, your future.
If you can remember these three constants about separation and divorce, you may actually make it through:
1) War is Hell
2) Life’s a Bitch and of course,
3) Shit happens.
Its like a three act play when you think about it.
The first act starts the action. One day, after a series of months maybe even years, you will look at your spouse or partner and say, Damn I can’t stand you or your ways anymore. Now, it may not come out that straight forward. Your first act might start with a more passive aggressive tone. You may come home, and be met with your shit at the door. Maybe the locks might be changed. Sometimes, the first act starts like an action movie. You may come home, go upstairs to your closed bedroom door and find your spouse in bed with the best man of your wedding, or your maid of honor. As your jaw drops to the ground, you instantly jump across the bed like a vampire in twilight, going for the throat of your spouse and the transgressor. Or, it might be more coy. You get the phone call about your spouse from the other woman. “I know he’s your husband, but I know he wasn’t your husband when he had that business trip with me in Nashville on January 24th. I can tell you of a certain tattoo located in a rather intimate place.” Or your first act might start out like a mafia movie. You might get the Good Fellas treatment where the brass knuckles are not too far behind. Out of nowhere, absolutely nowhere you are caught off guard. You’re walking off the job and you are met by a process server or deputy sheriff who instructs you, they will escort you to your home where you are able to collect the tools of your trade and a few items of clothes. Why? Because a protective order has been placed against you. Now while you are thinking about committing some of the acts you were accused of, that officer is there to save your life, because in the presence of the officer, you aren’t going to cross the line. In any event, if any of this has happened to you, welcome to the terror dome. You are about to board a rollercoaster ride beyond Space Mountain. War has been declared, and this is not a drill.
Separation/Divorce (War) is Hell, and has, in case you didn’t get the memo, Officially Been Declared
Separation and divorce don’t have to be states of war, however, as human beings, we thrive on conflict. Its like a sick adrenalin rush. We love the smell of war. The pain, strangely connects us back to the human side of life as opposed to bliss. I have yet to hear anyone say, I am in divorce bliss! No, being in a state of war enables us to finally say all that vile venomous vernacular which we have had pent up for months or even years.
I couldn’t stand you, or your damn mama. Kiss my black ass, not my ass hole but my whole entire ass. See what I mean. If you are married, and you are smart, you don’t act on it. You can think about it, but you don’t do it. That said, when the declaration of separation has been issued, war has officially been declared.
Life is a Bitch (and so are you for that matter)
During the separation and even during the divorce, your life will be bitchy. Lets face it, you will become a certifiable bitch. You will be bitching and moaning, why because your life has been completely discombobulated. There will be moments when you are straight-up depressed. Your heart is broken. You are mad not at the world, but at your spouse. That said, the world is a more readily available target, ergo you are hyper sensitive and bordering self-destructive. You may choose to self medicate. It may happen. You may go totally over the edge and make the 6:00 news (in which case you may not be reading this). Or, if you are lucky, truly blessed with family and friends who actually give a damn about your bitchy ass, you may make it. You may actually navigate yourself through this crucial cerebral mind field turning the corner to the next critical step, acceptance.
Shit (and Separation/Divorce) Happens
You can then say shit happens. Yeah, that was a part of my life. You can clearly identify the good parts and the bad parts and embrace both when appropriate. Your outlook on the world wont appear discolored. You can take what you have recently experienced, and just call it a chapter in the book called your life, as opposed to the final act, the curtain call where they lower your ass into the ground.
The purpose of these writings is two-fold. One, for me these writings are cathartic. If you don’t know what that word means, look it up. I consider myself in a process of healing and my journaling represents a healthy constructive antidote to the pain, sleepless nights and the long road to new self-discovery. The second reason for these writings is to help you the reader. I take it if you are reading this, your number just as mine, has come up; so, come on down, you’re the next contestant on catch the beat-down. You can make it. I am not promising that it will be a smooth trip at a cruising altitude of 40,000 feet. There will be times you will want to jump out of the plane without the damned parachute. Certainly, that option is available to you; but as I say that, realize this, bailing is a permanent solution to what really represents a temporary problem. By the time this comes to print, I will probably have the title of Ph.D. beside my name. Disclaimer: I am stating now for the record, that my Ph.D. has little, if anything to do with these writings. Furthermore, no I am not a psychologist, a relationship therapist, or someone with the brand new snake oil to sell. What I am, is you, Joe Ordinary. I, like you have and still in some cases have navigated through the maze of bitterness, toxicity, court, lawyers, child social services, you name it; I’ve had to face it. It ain’t easy. I am hoping that these writings will help you as there weren’t any out there for me, an African American man. I spent nights on the floor, crying at friends homes, searching laboriously through book stores, and for me, there really weren’t that many support services, let alone books or texts on the subject. In social sciences, this is what we would consider a research dearth. In layman’s terms, a hole, in Russell speak, I call it a damn shame. At the risk of sounding political, sure there are texts or books if you will that problematize black men and problematize the relationship between black men and black women; but there are few and far between any books which discuss healthy black marriages, let alone a healthy black divorce. Looking back at my family, I mean my grandparents, on my wedding day, you would never believe that my grandmother took a shot or two at my grandfather with her pistol. Divorce was not practiced in the late 1950s through 1975. Their generation believed in “death do us part.” More times than you would think, death operated as the agent of divorce. But now, if you do go through the divorce, some folk don’t know how to do it in a reasonable manner. When the separation/divorce becomes chaotic, anger driven, and malicious, love then becomes a battlefield. Last I checked; battles have yet to be bloodless. There has yet to be a war where there are no casualties. What’s even worse, if children are involved, they regrettably are the victims of collateral damage. I can speak to that because my parents divorced, and no, they did not prepare the best model for marriage or divorce. It’s only recently that I have now started to dress the wounds from 1978. Going with my mom, not knowing if my parents would get back together again, being one of the first generation latch key kids, anesthetizing myself with television; there are sometimes I wonder, what if my parents did separate and divorce in an amicable way, what would my potential really have been? In short, I am not writing this proposing to know all the answers. Again, this is a form of healing for me and a vehicle for you to possibly see yourself and look at this as one of the many available routes to get through possibly one of the most agonizing experiences you will ever go through.
As I would say, were we in a class setting, I have few a ground rules. They are short, yet still important.
1) No hating. For real, you cannot hate on me, but most important, you can’t hate on yourself.
2) Patience is essential. As you read through my experiences, the expectation is that you, the reader, will take notes about your experiences. How did you find out your relationship was in a terminal state. How did you feel? How did you manage your anger? How did you avoid self-medicating? Questions like these and others are powerful and need to be explored. I encourage you to read this text with others and talk about it. Each one should teach one and you would be amazed at the willful lack of communication we have among ourselves. Establish a meetup group, discuss your experiences in the barber shop. Whatever you do, practice and discuss your experiences.
3) Construct a new life mission. By the time you finish these readings, I expect you to have come full circle with yourself. This means, you should be inspired to re-design a plan to re-connect with yourself. Again, its not going to be easy. But hopefully, through my shared experiences, as comical as they may actually be, I had to do some internal and external make-overs. For me to be successful and provide a home that embraces love for my son, my outlook on life had to change. From that day, I became solution oriented. I became more critical and analytical about my decisions, my journey and the life I wanted to provide for my little boy. You will need to brainstorm and get to the point where you can say, damn it, I do love myself and screw the person who gave me grief and the horse they road in on every day of the week, twice on Sunday. Ironically, that may mean having to look your self in the mirror and saying that to the person on the other side.
4) Honesty is key. If you did some dirt, admit it. There are some things I did, skills I didn’t have.. That said, own it. Does it mean I am a screw up for life? No, in fact it demonstrates maturity. Knowing your limitations, whatever they may be forces cognizance and a means for new learning. Do me and money have a blissful relationship? No. Does it mean I am a failure? No. What it does mean, is that I have to learn skills to establish a better relationship with money. You may need to establish a relationship with communication skills. You may need to establish a relationship with sobriety. Whatever it is, own your limitations. It’s not a condemnation. In fact by owning your limitations, you can then begin to master them. As you own and master your limitations, you then start to become the master of your own fate. Master your limitations; don’t allow your limitations to master you. From there, everything else is a piece of cake baby.
5) I will not go over the cliff with you! Let me repeat that. I WILL NOT go over the cliff with you. It’s that simple; that short; that sweet. I will talk to you in the same manner I have talked to my students. In fact that probably got me the reputation of being that crazy one with the dreads. I have been known to shred my student’s work, literally to prove this one point. I’m hard; but life, life is ten times harder than me. If you don’t have high expectations for yourself, don’t expect me to waste my time with you. Failing my class is one thing. Failing life is something totally different. As long as you put forth the effort to swim, I will not let you drown. I will work with you in the class and outside of the class to make sure you don’t fail my class or life for that matter. That said, I will look over the side of the cliff with you. I will even allow you to tie a rope around me as you decide to explore the other side of the cliff. But when you start dragging me too close to the edge of said cliff, I will take out my machete and cut the rope like Indiana Jones, leaving you like Maxwell House, good to the last drop. That all boils down to my zero tolerance for bull shit. I am not going to bull shit you. Most important you shouldn’t want to bull shit yourself. If in the event bullshit arises, you are to take the book you are reading, to the nearest mirror and sufficiently smack the bullshit out of yourself. Once you have completed this task, you will then be free to move about the cabin, return back to your seat picking the up place in the text where you left off.
Simple isn’t it. Five easy rules to easily reading this text. You will make it. It may take you multiple readings and practice but if you put forth a real effort, be an engaged, active reader, you will make it through this. All I ask is once you have made it through, you pay it forward. Have discussion groups, learn to minimally use lawyers (unless it’s a 911 situation) learn effective means of communication, create your support groups, actively and creatively use therapy, journal: do all this and then some so that you can teach the next one how to get through this. If you can do that, and nothing else works, I’ll help you. But you have got to take the first step. As one of my good friends told me, your past and I are done. I am here in the present, to get you to here, your future.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Is this the way Co-Parenting Is Supposed to Be?
It was the best of nights, it was the worst of nights. I was on an emotional high because I went to a meeting where I didn’t feel threatened, I felt accepted. At the same time, with what has happened over the past few days, that got shot down in a matter of moments. My new victory, was now, called back, due to a penalty on the play. I had went to my first, of I what now know, won’t be the last of my manic depressive support groups, also known as bipolar disorder. I found it through the, meetup, website. Chalk one up for social media. In my meeting we did the whole go around the table getting to know you thing and from there it was my turn. I went through yet another re-hashing of my Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner bit, telling my story, not the complete blow by blow, but just a simple highlight reel. Now again, no one in this group is a licensed practitioner of psychology or a psychiatrist. People in my meeting looked just like me, ordinary. Nothing spectacular, its just a collection of people who are wrestling with, living with, and most important, becoming the master of their disorder. First, I never knew how blessed I was in the sense that, despite all the hell I have gone through, I get out my apartment. I will go out and in the community. I will go to the bookstore, I will go to the gym, I will go to the movies. Some people I met tonight are in some cases waking from their hibernatetive state. I mean that as it sounds because depression, if unabated, can turn your house into an edifice for an emotional prison in some cases a mausoleum. It was so odd hearing the question come up, how many of you thought about killing yourselves this week. About 25% of the hands in the room went up. I am glad they are here to joke about it but the reality is bipolar disorder does have a high suicide rate. It will rip a family apart. Again, Jean doesn’t have a diagnosis. But after presenting some of the episodes I experienced, the jury came back quick; your ex spouse needs and assessment. I didn’t want my experiences to dominate the conversation so, I did something which is hard for me, I listened. I felt like Jack Klugman’s Quincy character because I was on the outside trying to find more information about something I couldn’t control, life and possible death. In one story, a mother’s son, killed himself, which then put her into a state of psychosis, and thus she became manic-depressive. In another case, a woman who was married to her alcoholic husband for 28 years, came home to find out he decided to end his life. Going around the room, one person, who lost their baby, their marriage, a lucrative career, tried to OD on zanax. One person, his story shook me the most. He had thoughts of killing himself but what stopped him was that he didn’t want to leave a mess for his partner to clean up. Going into this world, if only for a moment, opened my eyes yet again to the need for some type of health care reform. Most HMOs don’t address mental illness. My God. But if you do get a doctor, their fees are just cost prohibitive in today’s economic climate. Like I said, my doctor, he’s going to have to take a pay-cut. $120.00 per hour, damn. As I listened to these folks, I was on the outside looking in. Some of their stories shocked me; others made me laugh. What I was impressed with the most was this: they listened to me, and no while they could not offer a diagnosis, they did help to confirm my suspicions and were just there, if only for the moment, allowed me to feel I wasn’t alone. That said, there is a part that left me trembling. In most cases, the one who may get the diagnosis, well before they realize they need help, they will bottom out. Marriages are destroyed meaning the one person with the disorder in fact may experience multiple marriages, all destroyed. One may loose their job and become do debilitated to the point where looking for another job is impossible because they are entombed by depression. There are some times I don’t know what to say. In the meeting, I raised the question, did I bring this on my wife. You see one who has bipolar, well they are the ultimate tale of Jekyll and Hyde. It just takes a trigger to bring out the monster of mania within. Here is what I learned. I am not a trigger-man. Triggers exist, they are out there, but no one person, particularly a loved one should be considered one’s trigger. The one who has the disorder ultimately is responsible for their behavior and treatment. Until they accept that, they will at best be mastered by the disorder. One thing they were all of the opinion of. When a person is in a manic state, be it euphoric or angry, they can become a danger to themselves.
Hearing that, coupled with a series of evasive communiqués from Jean I think brought me down to a level where I was not too happy with myself. Basically, there was another miscommuniqué . I’m feeling that way because I, for this week, was to have RedChief for our regular visit. Mind you, Jean and I had a disagreement where before, I felt the need to assert boundaries. Why did I do that? I just felt that it was time that RedChief knew that he had a home with dad too. (Granted it’s a work in progress) I felt strongly that Jean was not working to facilitate a smooth transition for him. In fact, looking at one of my texts on separation and divorce, these actions could be called “creating frustrating contact with the other parent.” Saturday was no exception. Though we had talked about when the vacations would begin, we never had a straight-up agreement. Then looking further at it, her actions really seemed more vindictive, almost punitive. On top of that, my senses were just working overtime. I tried at first to appeal to her sense of logic and fair-play. This was met with limited success. Sunday was no better. When I was able to communicate with RedChief the communication was just horrible. The phone was placed in front of him, while he was watching television. I can’t be mad at him, he’s just a kid, trapped between two damn foolish parents who love him,. The next day, I hold to my position, expecting our son to be at the designated spot for parental exchanges. No Go. In fact, Jean tells me in email and text that I will not be seeing my son, regardless of the custody agreement. Its here where I almost start to cry, because I am having flashbacks to when all this started. If you ever have your child taken from you, you can easily drown in the emotions. One woman told me last night that when their child was in her custody, the child placed a handprint on the television. Every time the sun shines, that handprint comes into full focus. Then she is inundated by emotions. The same is true for me with the film curious George. I see George in the Jungle, causing mischief basically being a kid in the jungle. All the other kids liked him, but the adults were pissed, and I see George go alone into his pile of leaves in a tree, and the song goes, “Is this how life is supposed to be.” I see George, I see RedChief, and then I see myself as a little boy, then come the tears. Why is it that kids are the recipients of such stupid ass treatment by adults. My mom wanted me but was she ill-equipped to handle me. We both want RedChief but are we emotionally equipped?
On to my night ride of last night. After my meeting, after numerous failed attempts to locate him, after hearing him on the phone in what appeared to be a depressed state, I was not going to be satisfied until I put my eyes on him in the flesh. Again, there is so much distrust between both of us. Evasive answers going across the board. Actions in my mind which equate to irrational thinking. The poor communication, I had had my fill. I was to the point last night where I was not going to be satisfied until I saw the boy. This brought me to the house. Against my better judgment, I knock on the door, no answer. I knocked again on the door, no answer. I left got some food and I got a phone call from Jean, we can meet you at 8:30, I am like why would I do that when I am the one saying 8:30 he needs to be in bed. After hanging up, the detective in my mind shows up and guess what, I’m putting two and two together and I am like, why didn’t you answer the door when I knocked on the door earlier. By this time I am upset. I feel lied to, I feel frustrated. I am like I want to see him! Why is it we set up a meeting to see him, there is always a damn excuse. Why. Well needless to say, I’m nervous and frustrated and I am back at the house because of the numerous broken promises and miss communiqués. Finally I am able to see the boy, face to face and he looks like he is in good spirits. But on the way home, I was feeling like a first class heel. I didn’t like the person I was right then. This isn’t me. Of course I got a text from Jean saying I’m glad you could see RedChief, could you just call before you come. This is one of those moments you really have to not give into your impulses. I am happy to say I didn’t. “I just responded by saying, I am beside myself. Though I was happy to see our son, I was not happy with the context nor the methods involved.” Is this the way co-parenting is supposed to be?
Hearing that, coupled with a series of evasive communiqués from Jean I think brought me down to a level where I was not too happy with myself. Basically, there was another miscommuniqué . I’m feeling that way because I, for this week, was to have RedChief for our regular visit. Mind you, Jean and I had a disagreement where before, I felt the need to assert boundaries. Why did I do that? I just felt that it was time that RedChief knew that he had a home with dad too. (Granted it’s a work in progress) I felt strongly that Jean was not working to facilitate a smooth transition for him. In fact, looking at one of my texts on separation and divorce, these actions could be called “creating frustrating contact with the other parent.” Saturday was no exception. Though we had talked about when the vacations would begin, we never had a straight-up agreement. Then looking further at it, her actions really seemed more vindictive, almost punitive. On top of that, my senses were just working overtime. I tried at first to appeal to her sense of logic and fair-play. This was met with limited success. Sunday was no better. When I was able to communicate with RedChief the communication was just horrible. The phone was placed in front of him, while he was watching television. I can’t be mad at him, he’s just a kid, trapped between two damn foolish parents who love him,. The next day, I hold to my position, expecting our son to be at the designated spot for parental exchanges. No Go. In fact, Jean tells me in email and text that I will not be seeing my son, regardless of the custody agreement. Its here where I almost start to cry, because I am having flashbacks to when all this started. If you ever have your child taken from you, you can easily drown in the emotions. One woman told me last night that when their child was in her custody, the child placed a handprint on the television. Every time the sun shines, that handprint comes into full focus. Then she is inundated by emotions. The same is true for me with the film curious George. I see George in the Jungle, causing mischief basically being a kid in the jungle. All the other kids liked him, but the adults were pissed, and I see George go alone into his pile of leaves in a tree, and the song goes, “Is this how life is supposed to be.” I see George, I see RedChief, and then I see myself as a little boy, then come the tears. Why is it that kids are the recipients of such stupid ass treatment by adults. My mom wanted me but was she ill-equipped to handle me. We both want RedChief but are we emotionally equipped?
On to my night ride of last night. After my meeting, after numerous failed attempts to locate him, after hearing him on the phone in what appeared to be a depressed state, I was not going to be satisfied until I put my eyes on him in the flesh. Again, there is so much distrust between both of us. Evasive answers going across the board. Actions in my mind which equate to irrational thinking. The poor communication, I had had my fill. I was to the point last night where I was not going to be satisfied until I saw the boy. This brought me to the house. Against my better judgment, I knock on the door, no answer. I knocked again on the door, no answer. I left got some food and I got a phone call from Jean, we can meet you at 8:30, I am like why would I do that when I am the one saying 8:30 he needs to be in bed. After hanging up, the detective in my mind shows up and guess what, I’m putting two and two together and I am like, why didn’t you answer the door when I knocked on the door earlier. By this time I am upset. I feel lied to, I feel frustrated. I am like I want to see him! Why is it we set up a meeting to see him, there is always a damn excuse. Why. Well needless to say, I’m nervous and frustrated and I am back at the house because of the numerous broken promises and miss communiqués. Finally I am able to see the boy, face to face and he looks like he is in good spirits. But on the way home, I was feeling like a first class heel. I didn’t like the person I was right then. This isn’t me. Of course I got a text from Jean saying I’m glad you could see RedChief, could you just call before you come. This is one of those moments you really have to not give into your impulses. I am happy to say I didn’t. “I just responded by saying, I am beside myself. Though I was happy to see our son, I was not happy with the context nor the methods involved.” Is this the way co-parenting is supposed to be?
Monday, May 31, 2010
To VH1 Executives by way of the Washington Post:
This show looks like a load of crap, straight from the gate. There was a saying, which stated, “Do not allow the court system to introduce you to the relationship with your child.” I think that needs to extend to reality television. These men, who to me are social eunuchs, are being rewarded with valuable airtime to do what? I’m missing the boat here and I really want to be on board. I am a father, in the middle of a separation. I had to fight for 50/50 joint custody of my child because I realize the significance of my presence in my son’s life. Admittedly I may be overly educated to watch this show. That said, as a cultural critic, particularly that of media, VH1 and Viacom for that matter, have to me, hit a new low. Programming like this represents negligence and to me borders being socially irresponsible. Who’s fooling whom here? Are these “contestants,” going to truly walk away being model dads after the stimulus of this pseudo baby boot camp? Better yet, will VH1 find their newest reality break out star and build a franchise around them? At the risk of being cliché’ lets get real for a moment. We all remember how VH1 bought The Surreal Life from the WB. From the Surreal Life, came Strange Love, which followed the kooky relationship between Flavor Flav and Bridget Neilson. From there, Flavor Flav got his own show Flavor of Love, which spun off into I Love New York to Charm School to I Love Money. Talk about mileage. As an audience, we are expected to fall for this repackaging of all these other reality shows and a few others I failed to mention. No, what we are being asked to watch, for our consideration as an informed audience mind you is, “Jackass-with a conscious.” Enough already, please. If you really want to create a reality TV show that makes a difference, create a show that works to reduce the unemployment rate. How about this, why not put together a reality show that follows those who need health care but can’t get it? At least that type of reality programming offers the audience some type of constructive water cooler talk.
Just my opinion.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Confessions from a Professed N-B-
Man, life can get all up in your ass, baby you better work it out…
Never have more truer words been spoken from the genre of hip hop. Thank you DeLa Soul. Today has not been as productive as what I would have preferred. Of course I did the basics, I woke up, ate, checked for communiqué, applied for more jobs via the web, probably need to do more following up on some things. This week I had a pretty rough scare. The good doctor, Dr. Jean, gave me cause for alarm. The reason, well, allow me to back track for a second. In my marriage, there, I would have to say I was hesitant. I shied away from conflict. At this point of self-critique, I can freely admit to myself, I latently had some self-esteem issues. I don’t know why this is coming out so freely now but it is. I was so romanticized by the acceptance from my wife, that I slowly morphed into a person I now recognize as what I would consider my anti-self. I was a sacrosanct. I would go along with anything, for the sanctity of being in my marriage plus the added luxury of peace and quiet. Why: I think because I was in competition with a ghost, maybe a series of them. There was my living dad, my deceased grandfather and my deceased step-father. I wanted to demonstrate to all three, that I could be a loving husband and a dad with a presence. For me, to be happily married satisfied that need. That added to my list of anxieties: rejection, failure, inability to provide, fueled what in hindsight might have been a gas fire I couldn’t stop. I grandly bought so much into the concept of marriage, where I forgot, that I too, needed to be happy. There were many opportunities which presented themselves for me to vocalize my objections to certain decisions but instead I bought into the notion that a still tongue makes a happy life.
A large part of the issue for me centered around my returning to school full time. As I valued that, she and I think members of her family and mine too for that matter rejected the idea. What man is going to go back to school while his wife supports him? That was the white elephant in the room. As they offered their opinions, I began to view myself as a second-class citizen within the marriage. Because Jean was the “financial breadwinner” I felt a great deal of my opinions were valued at only ½ in relationship to her 1 and ½ vote in our marriage. I think negative self-talk also reinforced this image. In short, I bought into the idea of being a social eunuch. That’s how I saw myself. I lacked value. I felt I wasn’t worthy of being loved because I wasn’t the “bread winner.” I wasn’t the provider. Consequently, that made me more vulnerable to emotional abuse. Oh I don’t think it was intentional, but looking back at the whole thing, I was being punished and didn’t know it. This is the sad thing about the duality of being African-American and male in the middle class society. Returning back to the question of financial stability, in our culture we (black folk) equate one’s sense of socially constructed manliness to ones means to economically provide. The social cues are there. We buy into them every day. The materialism, the keeping up with the Jones’s. If our friends had a house, we had to have a house. If our friends were in a certain daycare, we had to be in a daycare that was comparable. If our friends were going on a cruise, we had to go the Europe. It was like a grown up game of follow the leader and I felt penalized because my life for the next five to eight years was to be a Ph.D. student, not Cliff Huxtable. But I felt forced into that modality of thinking because I wanted to keep my wife happy. We played the game but the roles were reversed. I didn’t have the full time 9 to 5, but she did. She made more money than I did. Put simply, I was not the man in my marriage. This was never more thunderous when her brother called to “put me in check.” I was branded irresponsible, lazy, lacked motivation, you name it; I wore the brand.
My aunts even reminded me of this when we were pregnant. You cannot go back to school. If you go back to school your wife is going to leave you. The messages were so threatening, that I had to put certain members of my family on mute. I just couldn’t take it.
I easily remember the time I had a severe nervous breakdown in the fall of 2003. It was one of my worst panic attacks ever. My immediate 360 degrees personified a paralytic storm of emotional debilitation, thus forcing me to take a medical leave of absence. Basically, my manager, who was as racially sensitive as Steve Urkle was socially graceful, reached me at a point in my life when I finally decided, enough was enough regarding her white superiority-complex. The bullshit had to cease and desist, and my early to mid 30s would initiate my new state of racial consciousness. Before you I present the back-story. Our professional relationship was tumultuous, and that was on a good day. I’ve never been one to back away from a social stand. In 1997, I came to the aid of eight African American boys who decided getting admitted to one of the top HBCUs in North Carolina on free rides mind you, thrust them into manhood, ergo placing them into a celebratory mood and a state of public drunkenness. Loveable jackasses they were, they brought 40 ounce malt liquor into their residential halls which of course was state run. I and other black people on the campus saw the writing on the wall. It was so clear Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could see it. These boys, loveable jackasses they were, who were at the flagship high school in North Carolina, were looking down the barrel of expulsion. Now, the administration was not stupid. In fact beyond the handwriting on the wall, they saw the newspaper headlines. Eight African American Boys Expelled. No, this would not be a good admissions tool. Instead, the administration targeted two. When I saw how one boy who really didn’t have a strong African American male role model come to is aid, guess who did. After a month of going to meetings with his mother, his lawyer, the court you name it, he and his co-conspirator were able to stay in school. Now, its not everyday that black people step to white folk and live to tell the tale. Hence, a new white female supervisor who pretty much was told, we (the administration) have got a price on that niggers head became my bounty hunter. Get that nigger dead or alive. We prefer he be dead.
Round One: Fall of 1997, out of nowhere, I am getting written warning after written warning. I had no back up to help me do my job. Round Two: Spring 1998, I am suspended for two weeks (an attempt without pay). Learning that my rights of due process had been grossly violated, I was still suspended, but my pay was re-instated. Round Three: Fall 1998, I experience my first job related panic attack. I resign, only to rescind the resignation 24 hours later. I also realize I do have a voice and discover the EEOC and file complaints. Round Four: Fall 1999, after getting another written warning, and learning that my supervisor was attempting to fire me, I learned later that because some previous written warnings had expired, I just had to get another written warning. Round Five: Fall 2000, I filed another complaint with EEOC about what I interpreted as intentional attempts to create a hostile work environment. Its here where I am called into a meeting with the president of the school to come up with a way to peaceably get me to leave. By this time, I’ve learned that when an EEOC complaint is filed, it puts the breaks temporarily on any human resources process because the federal government is now involved. Round Six: Spring 2001, the most climatic battle between my supervisor and myself takes place. By this time, I am accused of tampering with a computer system as well as poor job performance. Again, she was trying to force me out, I wasn’t trying to go. In the Spring of 2003, I am admitted to Howard University and my boss is giddy. He’s going to leave and go to school at the end of the 03 school year. After careful consideration I decided no; I needed one more year of savings. On top of that, Jean was not happy with me relocating without her, right after we got engaged, so I followed my heart and my wallet. Round Seven: As I made the decision to stay at my job for one more year, my manager, suddenly found problems with my job performance. One day, I was called into a meeting behind closed doors she basically called me Nigger without saying the word. Defiantly pointing her finger at me, raising her voice, I felt was threatening let alone condescending. Me, attempting to assert my rights as a human being, let alone my feelings of being racially disrespected, I lodged yet another complaint against her behavior. What I failed to learn, after all these bouts, was that I was in violation of certain social contracts.
Breach of social contract one: you as the employee are never, ever, to question the actions or motivations of your direct superior.
Breach of social contract two: as a black man employed in North Carolina State Government, regardless of your training and education, you are still relegated to a stigmatic classed existence. You are (at least in 2003) forbidden, to assert your state of being, be creative, take initiative and in general, be considered equal to your white folk counterpart. I discovered this after learning of a study where the state even admitted; we have done black men wrong in state government.
After bringing this matter to the attention of a white supervisor, a white human resources director, a white administrator, and of course, a white executive director, I was viewed as the Negro Problem of 2003. Sure enough, after I vocalized what I now knew was my racialized experience, I found myself in the midst of another, in now what I considered an absurd list of job disputes with my Lilliputian tyrannical, Napoleonic, cookie making desperate housewife boss. After numerous attempts to discharge me for cause, I had been brought into a pre-disciplinary dismissal meeting for of all things, a damned walkie talkie. Trying to be professional about this trumped up discharge, she gives me a notice, Friday evening, telling me that Monday morning, I am to come to a pre-termination meeting. We’ll disregard the fact that I had been elected to the post of Staff Council President, (the youngest one). At the time, I’m calm. I’m cool like Shaft. I ask, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Gleefully she said yes this is what I want to do. So, in my mind I am getting ready for another installment of “The Terminator.” At Jeans apartment, as I am preparing for my mounting defense, I suddenly go numb. I can’t speak for an hour. My body is stiff. OK, not only can I not speak, I am now paralytic. On the next Monday, the doctor tells me that I have had a panic attack, and what I need is some time for lack of a better term, to reboot myself. So after making amends with my psychologist of the moment, I elect to take what is called emergency family medical leave. Its here where I am diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder. So for the next three months I am out of work, trying to figure out what has happened to me. Now here is where the line starts to become a circle. Being one who believes in total disclosure, when the, to-be, in laws come to visit, I feel the need to be up front with them. I tell them everything that’s happened. Her father is pretty much from the old school saying in so many words, “Sometimes when you are working for someone, you’ve got to take what the boss gives you, even if it is crap.” My family wasn’t much better. One of my aunts was of the opinion, “You know you know how to work with that white woman. Just keep your mouth shut and do your job.” So in short, I felt as though I was in the middle of a conundrum. Yes I have a job, but am I predestined to a life of racialized second-class citizenship, in order to get a pay-check? Apparently, I am. So everything I was taught about being a man, self advocating, being racially conscious, being the man who would risk his neck for his brother man, going to the million man march to say I am my brother’s keeper, is only to be practiced during Black History Month and every first Sunday. My racial and gendered state of efficacy is now in a crisis of conscious. Wonderful. Those who were of the generation of the civil rights movement were now hypocrites. In the words of Prince, I wanted to smack somebody because I felt as though the people I sought out for guidance and inspiration were cowards. Oh no. Where I worked, regardless of my academic achievements, regardless of what I had done over the past 8 years there, I’m was supposed to know my role and shut my damn mouth. In other words, roll over and play the role of nigger/bitch and I regain my masculinity. Be all you can be, be the nigger-bitch, and proudly, be the best damned nigger-bitch you can be. Yep that’s me, your friendly neighborhood, nigger-bitch. Capitulate, sell-out, and then you will walk like a man my son. In the words of one of my deceased associates, I’d rather lick my own vomit. To me, to capitulate socially at that level, in short is congruent to self emasculation. That, I could not and will not do. But in the eyes of the traditionalist, their view distinctively represents an oppositional gaze.
I could hear the commentary from the sidelines. He’s going to lean on this woman for life. He’s going to loose his damn job and become financially dependent on his new fiancée. Well, by 2004, I was married; I left my job on my terms and went back to school. The wife in essence was making the bulk of the money but in all fairness, I took my retirement from the state and subsidized a great portion of my first year of graduate study. Here is where the arc becomes 3/4s of a circle. Regardless of the fact that I was paying for my education and not asking my wife really for anything except a ride to and from the airport; I paid my portion of the rent, I paid my share of the utilities. That said, as I was doing all of that, I still felt afraid to vocalize my opinions. I would allow myself, to deny myself. I represented a work in progress, not instant husband, just add water. Its interesting how that level of corrosive thinking, distorts your self image. You see, because I was not viewed, even through my own eyes, as a providing partner, I resigned myself to a second class status in my marriage. One could say there was a genderfuck within our home. Through the eyes of patriarchal hegemonic constructs of the American marriage structure, she, culturally and symbolically was wearing the pants in the family because she culturally personified what we in our society view as what a man is suppose to do. She was making the money with her Ph.D. where as I, was just the Ph.D. student; what was I contributing to the marriage? That type of negative self-defeatist that I allowed myself to buy into, made me silent. I was afraid. I was afraid to assert myself to my wife, my mother, her father and her brother and even her friends. I was afraid to lead. I think also what needs to be mentioned is that it takes two for the process of domination to be complete and fittingly my circle comes full. Domination is a two-person process. Now I am not saying Jean was a bitch. What I am saying is that she was not cognizant. Was that her fault? Not at all, I take the blame for that. I take the blame for that because I bought into a system that perpetuates the myth and lie combined. One has to enable domination and one has to assume the role of the dominator. Now over the course of time, anyone is capable of learning from trial and error. I sincerely believed that Jean did begin to learn from her experiences and thus took control to a certain extent from me. Every person has a price, mine was peace and quiet. I wanted a tranquil home. That said, there is another word that comes from tranquil, tranquilize. How do you have a tranquilizing home without crossing the line to being anesthetized? I was afraid of her throwing fits, withholding affection, going into a funk. These things were bargaining chips or points of currency if you will which had me in check. Whatever you want baby you got it. I’ll do it. Because again you see I wasn’t bringing home the bread so I didn’t have much say so over what went on in my home. So the cycle of domination was pretty solid. Even when I was making decent coin, it was only ½ of what she was making and guess what, I still bought into it. And guess what, she left anyway. The good thing about this, and if you go through this yourself, all ways look for the good, even in the most horrid of places, going through my deepest fear regarding my marriage, I haven’t done anything destructive to myself, nor to anyone else. Oh I’ve been depressed, but dysfunctional and depressed aren’t in the same category. When this is all done, and I recognize I still have a long way to go, I can say with my head held high, I am a man and I am setting a damn good model for our son. I may not always win, but even in our defeats and losses, how we react, absorb and learn from the lows, without question is a testament to our real character. I was a man in tact when I came into my marriage and damn it, I am going to be a man, a bigger man as I exit this marriage. I know I know how to love and I am worthy of someone to share that with. Do I have everything together today, no.. Will I have everything together tomorrow? Probably not, but what’s most important, and I hope you take this with you as you read this, I am showing up ready for practice, getting ready to play. If you can do even that, just by showing up, think about what you can do, when you learn the rules of the game and actually play it. Not only will you be a player, but eventually, you will be an owner of your own team, the team called yourself.
Never have more truer words been spoken from the genre of hip hop. Thank you DeLa Soul. Today has not been as productive as what I would have preferred. Of course I did the basics, I woke up, ate, checked for communiqué, applied for more jobs via the web, probably need to do more following up on some things. This week I had a pretty rough scare. The good doctor, Dr. Jean, gave me cause for alarm. The reason, well, allow me to back track for a second. In my marriage, there, I would have to say I was hesitant. I shied away from conflict. At this point of self-critique, I can freely admit to myself, I latently had some self-esteem issues. I don’t know why this is coming out so freely now but it is. I was so romanticized by the acceptance from my wife, that I slowly morphed into a person I now recognize as what I would consider my anti-self. I was a sacrosanct. I would go along with anything, for the sanctity of being in my marriage plus the added luxury of peace and quiet. Why: I think because I was in competition with a ghost, maybe a series of them. There was my living dad, my deceased grandfather and my deceased step-father. I wanted to demonstrate to all three, that I could be a loving husband and a dad with a presence. For me, to be happily married satisfied that need. That added to my list of anxieties: rejection, failure, inability to provide, fueled what in hindsight might have been a gas fire I couldn’t stop. I grandly bought so much into the concept of marriage, where I forgot, that I too, needed to be happy. There were many opportunities which presented themselves for me to vocalize my objections to certain decisions but instead I bought into the notion that a still tongue makes a happy life.
A large part of the issue for me centered around my returning to school full time. As I valued that, she and I think members of her family and mine too for that matter rejected the idea. What man is going to go back to school while his wife supports him? That was the white elephant in the room. As they offered their opinions, I began to view myself as a second-class citizen within the marriage. Because Jean was the “financial breadwinner” I felt a great deal of my opinions were valued at only ½ in relationship to her 1 and ½ vote in our marriage. I think negative self-talk also reinforced this image. In short, I bought into the idea of being a social eunuch. That’s how I saw myself. I lacked value. I felt I wasn’t worthy of being loved because I wasn’t the “bread winner.” I wasn’t the provider. Consequently, that made me more vulnerable to emotional abuse. Oh I don’t think it was intentional, but looking back at the whole thing, I was being punished and didn’t know it. This is the sad thing about the duality of being African-American and male in the middle class society. Returning back to the question of financial stability, in our culture we (black folk) equate one’s sense of socially constructed manliness to ones means to economically provide. The social cues are there. We buy into them every day. The materialism, the keeping up with the Jones’s. If our friends had a house, we had to have a house. If our friends were in a certain daycare, we had to be in a daycare that was comparable. If our friends were going on a cruise, we had to go the Europe. It was like a grown up game of follow the leader and I felt penalized because my life for the next five to eight years was to be a Ph.D. student, not Cliff Huxtable. But I felt forced into that modality of thinking because I wanted to keep my wife happy. We played the game but the roles were reversed. I didn’t have the full time 9 to 5, but she did. She made more money than I did. Put simply, I was not the man in my marriage. This was never more thunderous when her brother called to “put me in check.” I was branded irresponsible, lazy, lacked motivation, you name it; I wore the brand.
My aunts even reminded me of this when we were pregnant. You cannot go back to school. If you go back to school your wife is going to leave you. The messages were so threatening, that I had to put certain members of my family on mute. I just couldn’t take it.
I easily remember the time I had a severe nervous breakdown in the fall of 2003. It was one of my worst panic attacks ever. My immediate 360 degrees personified a paralytic storm of emotional debilitation, thus forcing me to take a medical leave of absence. Basically, my manager, who was as racially sensitive as Steve Urkle was socially graceful, reached me at a point in my life when I finally decided, enough was enough regarding her white superiority-complex. The bullshit had to cease and desist, and my early to mid 30s would initiate my new state of racial consciousness. Before you I present the back-story. Our professional relationship was tumultuous, and that was on a good day. I’ve never been one to back away from a social stand. In 1997, I came to the aid of eight African American boys who decided getting admitted to one of the top HBCUs in North Carolina on free rides mind you, thrust them into manhood, ergo placing them into a celebratory mood and a state of public drunkenness. Loveable jackasses they were, they brought 40 ounce malt liquor into their residential halls which of course was state run. I and other black people on the campus saw the writing on the wall. It was so clear Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could see it. These boys, loveable jackasses they were, who were at the flagship high school in North Carolina, were looking down the barrel of expulsion. Now, the administration was not stupid. In fact beyond the handwriting on the wall, they saw the newspaper headlines. Eight African American Boys Expelled. No, this would not be a good admissions tool. Instead, the administration targeted two. When I saw how one boy who really didn’t have a strong African American male role model come to is aid, guess who did. After a month of going to meetings with his mother, his lawyer, the court you name it, he and his co-conspirator were able to stay in school. Now, its not everyday that black people step to white folk and live to tell the tale. Hence, a new white female supervisor who pretty much was told, we (the administration) have got a price on that niggers head became my bounty hunter. Get that nigger dead or alive. We prefer he be dead.
Round One: Fall of 1997, out of nowhere, I am getting written warning after written warning. I had no back up to help me do my job. Round Two: Spring 1998, I am suspended for two weeks (an attempt without pay). Learning that my rights of due process had been grossly violated, I was still suspended, but my pay was re-instated. Round Three: Fall 1998, I experience my first job related panic attack. I resign, only to rescind the resignation 24 hours later. I also realize I do have a voice and discover the EEOC and file complaints. Round Four: Fall 1999, after getting another written warning, and learning that my supervisor was attempting to fire me, I learned later that because some previous written warnings had expired, I just had to get another written warning. Round Five: Fall 2000, I filed another complaint with EEOC about what I interpreted as intentional attempts to create a hostile work environment. Its here where I am called into a meeting with the president of the school to come up with a way to peaceably get me to leave. By this time, I’ve learned that when an EEOC complaint is filed, it puts the breaks temporarily on any human resources process because the federal government is now involved. Round Six: Spring 2001, the most climatic battle between my supervisor and myself takes place. By this time, I am accused of tampering with a computer system as well as poor job performance. Again, she was trying to force me out, I wasn’t trying to go. In the Spring of 2003, I am admitted to Howard University and my boss is giddy. He’s going to leave and go to school at the end of the 03 school year. After careful consideration I decided no; I needed one more year of savings. On top of that, Jean was not happy with me relocating without her, right after we got engaged, so I followed my heart and my wallet. Round Seven: As I made the decision to stay at my job for one more year, my manager, suddenly found problems with my job performance. One day, I was called into a meeting behind closed doors she basically called me Nigger without saying the word. Defiantly pointing her finger at me, raising her voice, I felt was threatening let alone condescending. Me, attempting to assert my rights as a human being, let alone my feelings of being racially disrespected, I lodged yet another complaint against her behavior. What I failed to learn, after all these bouts, was that I was in violation of certain social contracts.
Breach of social contract one: you as the employee are never, ever, to question the actions or motivations of your direct superior.
Breach of social contract two: as a black man employed in North Carolina State Government, regardless of your training and education, you are still relegated to a stigmatic classed existence. You are (at least in 2003) forbidden, to assert your state of being, be creative, take initiative and in general, be considered equal to your white folk counterpart. I discovered this after learning of a study where the state even admitted; we have done black men wrong in state government.
After bringing this matter to the attention of a white supervisor, a white human resources director, a white administrator, and of course, a white executive director, I was viewed as the Negro Problem of 2003. Sure enough, after I vocalized what I now knew was my racialized experience, I found myself in the midst of another, in now what I considered an absurd list of job disputes with my Lilliputian tyrannical, Napoleonic, cookie making desperate housewife boss. After numerous attempts to discharge me for cause, I had been brought into a pre-disciplinary dismissal meeting for of all things, a damned walkie talkie. Trying to be professional about this trumped up discharge, she gives me a notice, Friday evening, telling me that Monday morning, I am to come to a pre-termination meeting. We’ll disregard the fact that I had been elected to the post of Staff Council President, (the youngest one). At the time, I’m calm. I’m cool like Shaft. I ask, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Gleefully she said yes this is what I want to do. So, in my mind I am getting ready for another installment of “The Terminator.” At Jeans apartment, as I am preparing for my mounting defense, I suddenly go numb. I can’t speak for an hour. My body is stiff. OK, not only can I not speak, I am now paralytic. On the next Monday, the doctor tells me that I have had a panic attack, and what I need is some time for lack of a better term, to reboot myself. So after making amends with my psychologist of the moment, I elect to take what is called emergency family medical leave. Its here where I am diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder. So for the next three months I am out of work, trying to figure out what has happened to me. Now here is where the line starts to become a circle. Being one who believes in total disclosure, when the, to-be, in laws come to visit, I feel the need to be up front with them. I tell them everything that’s happened. Her father is pretty much from the old school saying in so many words, “Sometimes when you are working for someone, you’ve got to take what the boss gives you, even if it is crap.” My family wasn’t much better. One of my aunts was of the opinion, “You know you know how to work with that white woman. Just keep your mouth shut and do your job.” So in short, I felt as though I was in the middle of a conundrum. Yes I have a job, but am I predestined to a life of racialized second-class citizenship, in order to get a pay-check? Apparently, I am. So everything I was taught about being a man, self advocating, being racially conscious, being the man who would risk his neck for his brother man, going to the million man march to say I am my brother’s keeper, is only to be practiced during Black History Month and every first Sunday. My racial and gendered state of efficacy is now in a crisis of conscious. Wonderful. Those who were of the generation of the civil rights movement were now hypocrites. In the words of Prince, I wanted to smack somebody because I felt as though the people I sought out for guidance and inspiration were cowards. Oh no. Where I worked, regardless of my academic achievements, regardless of what I had done over the past 8 years there, I’m was supposed to know my role and shut my damn mouth. In other words, roll over and play the role of nigger/bitch and I regain my masculinity. Be all you can be, be the nigger-bitch, and proudly, be the best damned nigger-bitch you can be. Yep that’s me, your friendly neighborhood, nigger-bitch. Capitulate, sell-out, and then you will walk like a man my son. In the words of one of my deceased associates, I’d rather lick my own vomit. To me, to capitulate socially at that level, in short is congruent to self emasculation. That, I could not and will not do. But in the eyes of the traditionalist, their view distinctively represents an oppositional gaze.
I could hear the commentary from the sidelines. He’s going to lean on this woman for life. He’s going to loose his damn job and become financially dependent on his new fiancée. Well, by 2004, I was married; I left my job on my terms and went back to school. The wife in essence was making the bulk of the money but in all fairness, I took my retirement from the state and subsidized a great portion of my first year of graduate study. Here is where the arc becomes 3/4s of a circle. Regardless of the fact that I was paying for my education and not asking my wife really for anything except a ride to and from the airport; I paid my portion of the rent, I paid my share of the utilities. That said, as I was doing all of that, I still felt afraid to vocalize my opinions. I would allow myself, to deny myself. I represented a work in progress, not instant husband, just add water. Its interesting how that level of corrosive thinking, distorts your self image. You see, because I was not viewed, even through my own eyes, as a providing partner, I resigned myself to a second class status in my marriage. One could say there was a genderfuck within our home. Through the eyes of patriarchal hegemonic constructs of the American marriage structure, she, culturally and symbolically was wearing the pants in the family because she culturally personified what we in our society view as what a man is suppose to do. She was making the money with her Ph.D. where as I, was just the Ph.D. student; what was I contributing to the marriage? That type of negative self-defeatist that I allowed myself to buy into, made me silent. I was afraid. I was afraid to assert myself to my wife, my mother, her father and her brother and even her friends. I was afraid to lead. I think also what needs to be mentioned is that it takes two for the process of domination to be complete and fittingly my circle comes full. Domination is a two-person process. Now I am not saying Jean was a bitch. What I am saying is that she was not cognizant. Was that her fault? Not at all, I take the blame for that. I take the blame for that because I bought into a system that perpetuates the myth and lie combined. One has to enable domination and one has to assume the role of the dominator. Now over the course of time, anyone is capable of learning from trial and error. I sincerely believed that Jean did begin to learn from her experiences and thus took control to a certain extent from me. Every person has a price, mine was peace and quiet. I wanted a tranquil home. That said, there is another word that comes from tranquil, tranquilize. How do you have a tranquilizing home without crossing the line to being anesthetized? I was afraid of her throwing fits, withholding affection, going into a funk. These things were bargaining chips or points of currency if you will which had me in check. Whatever you want baby you got it. I’ll do it. Because again you see I wasn’t bringing home the bread so I didn’t have much say so over what went on in my home. So the cycle of domination was pretty solid. Even when I was making decent coin, it was only ½ of what she was making and guess what, I still bought into it. And guess what, she left anyway. The good thing about this, and if you go through this yourself, all ways look for the good, even in the most horrid of places, going through my deepest fear regarding my marriage, I haven’t done anything destructive to myself, nor to anyone else. Oh I’ve been depressed, but dysfunctional and depressed aren’t in the same category. When this is all done, and I recognize I still have a long way to go, I can say with my head held high, I am a man and I am setting a damn good model for our son. I may not always win, but even in our defeats and losses, how we react, absorb and learn from the lows, without question is a testament to our real character. I was a man in tact when I came into my marriage and damn it, I am going to be a man, a bigger man as I exit this marriage. I know I know how to love and I am worthy of someone to share that with. Do I have everything together today, no.. Will I have everything together tomorrow? Probably not, but what’s most important, and I hope you take this with you as you read this, I am showing up ready for practice, getting ready to play. If you can do even that, just by showing up, think about what you can do, when you learn the rules of the game and actually play it. Not only will you be a player, but eventually, you will be an owner of your own team, the team called yourself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)